The Great Rakshana!
by LunaEquus
Summary: A killer haunts London's West End and it is up to an exotic Indian illusionist and his lovely green eyed assistant to stop him... TSFT spoilers!
1. The Setup 1

**DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T READ TSFT! You have been warned.  
**

**Behold! My canon way to bring Kartik back to life! I've been thinking up this story idea since I saw _The Prestige_, so it will be partly influenced by that. Many thanks to ThreeOranges for beta-ing it! Enjoy!**

I have waited a long time for this moment.

Tomorrow, I shall see her for the first time in four years, in the flesh and blood, not in a dream. Because of this, I cannot sleep. I am too…excited? Anxious? I lie upon the bed sheets, willing myself not to move, to keep my eyes closed so that sleep might sneak up upon me. I order my limbs to relax, one at a time, from my toes to my shoulders, so that when I reach my head I am nearly lulled to sleep by meditation and boredom alone. But willing my brain to shut down is impossible, for I can't forget what tomorrow is, and my body rebels once more, fidgeting until I must finally abandon sleep for pacing my rented room. Tomorrow, I shall see her, my Gemma, for the first time in four years. And it has been so long a wait.

Four years ago, I died. I sacrificed myself in the heat of the moment, believing that Fate had presented me with an ultimatum. I let the Tree claim me so that I didn't have to see the vines consume my Gemma, so that I didn't have to live life without her. I died because I didn't want to live on the flip side, without her. Call it a selfish act or a selfless one, after all, I _did _sacrifice myself, but it wasn't for a noble reason. It happened too quickly for me to realize the rashness of my actions, and my pact with the devil had been signed, only moments before said devil was dispelled, driven out by my Gemma.

To elaborate, the realms and the Winterlands were imbalanced for many years. Nature dictates that the lands give magic to its dwellers, and they return it back to the land in due time. It is not a hard concept; it is just like the nature of the earth – we take from the land and give back, creating a harmonious, self sufficient cycle. This was how it once was in the realms, until the Order tried to harness the magic for their own. The magic was thrown off balance, nature's course disturbed, much like the consequences (however insignificant) of building a dam. Creatures started to look for other sources of magic, much of which could be attained by sacrifices.

To make a long story short, the Tree of All Souls became too powerful through sacrifices. It craved more, an imbalance. When Gemma released the souls, it was straining for a sacrifice to fill it once more. I became that sacrifice, for it already had its sights (or rather – roots) on Gemma. When the Tree claimed me and released her, she was able to give the magic back to the land in a way that would eventually harmonize the balance of magic once more. I was trapped in the Tree until it did, but once balance was restored, my sacrifice was no longer needed. Gemma gave magic back to the land, and in return, I was released.

This was not an instantaneous occurrence; it was weeks in the real world until I managed to return to my body. And even then I had problems doing so.

Normally when a person enters the realms, their body lies in a comatose state until they return. This is what happened to me, but the longer I remained in the realms, the slower my pulse grew, until its frail thread was nearly undetectable. My body was moved to a mortuary and then to a waiting mortuary, for that was when I suppose someone still monitored a heartbeat. Sahirah Foster did not fare so well; she was as dead as could be and was buried promptly. But I still lived in the realms, and I had the chance to return to my world; however, one thing stood in my way.

I couldn't return to my body, for it was not where I left it.

When I found the passage between worlds that Gemma used to take me to the realms for the first time, I hovered in the doorway, a specter of a man, no more than a shade, and much less than a tracker. I couldn't move beyond where my body once stood; I was trapped.

Meanwhile, before I learned of my potential freedom, I visited my Gemma in her dreams. I knew she was heartbroken because of my death, and that broke me too. What had I done? Couldn't there have been another way? Did I have to put that rift between us? Thankfully, I was given another chance, or rather, I found one.

I believe in dreams. I have for my whole life. I believe that others believe in their dreams as well, though few to the extent that I do. I knew that if I wanted to make it back to my world, I had to contact someone that could return my body to me. I had to contact someone that believed in dreams, believed that they were more than things to remain in your head as illusions. I regret to admit that Gemma is not that sort of person.

However, the housekeeper of Spence most definitely is. It took only one night of persuaded dreams for old Brigid to inform Mrs. Nightwing of what had happened. My dying body was plucked from the mortuary and placed in the East Wing, where I thankfully was able to cross the threshold and return to it.

It was the strangest feeling, waking on the dirt floor of the passage and realizing that my earthly form was indeed plucked straight from a mortuary and rushed here. Under the watchful eyes of the two women who rescued me, I realized I was naked, save for a shawl placed modestly over my lower half.

"By all the saints," Brigid gasped as I sat up and pulled the tag off my toe. "He lives again!"

I was given new clothes and a generous meal, and allowed to spend the night in the school, for all of the girls had already gone home to their families for the season. I slept in Gemma's old room, in her bed. That night was hard, the first of many lonely nights to come. I laid awake, wondering about Gemma – was she alright? Did she make her debut? Did she still miss me? In dreams I visited her, waving to her from where I stood, across a great body of water from her. Was there symbolism in that? Why was she on a different shore than me? She cried out to me, unable to see me anymore. "I'm here," I told her. "Trust me."

I woke with a start that morning, smacking my head on the sloping ceiling over Gemma's bed. The dream had ripped a hole in my heart; I needed to see her, tell her – no, _show _her that I was alright.

Mrs. Nightwing looked uncomfortable as I sat in her office and asked about Gemma. She told me that Gemma had already made her debut and in fact left England.

"She is to attend university," she said. "I advise you not to go after her."

"Why?" I asked. Surely if the headmistress could understand the Order, she could understand our relationship.

"Miss Doyle is just learning who she really is. This is a marvelous opportunity for her. Let her live it. And while you wait for her to come back…perhaps try to establish yourself?"

I nodded obediently, feeling crushed. What if Gemma didn't come back? What if she met someone else? But those questions were not for Mrs. Nightwing's ears, they were only meant to torture me endlessly for the next four years while I waited like the wife of a seafaring man. I had just thanked Nightwing for saving my life, and was turning to leave, when she stopped me.

"Mr. Kartik, before you go… It seems that dear Sahirah, God rest her soul, has left something to you in her will. It says here that she grew fond of you and thought you an unappreciative son." Nightwing chuckled sadly as she perused the will. "She bequeathed you a monetary gift. Will you have it?"

Of course I took it, but I admit I was hesitant at first. I've never found myself in need of charity, but once Nightwing phrased it as a gift, I accepted.

At first, London was a constant reminder of Gemma's absence. I took walks often by the places we once haunted. The wharves where we kissed; the elegant buildings of Pall Mall, where we narrowly escaped the Rakshana; even the alley in Whitechapel where I brushed the tears from her cheeks and comforted her last Christmas. My heart ached for Gemma, but life had to go on.

Those four years passed like a blur. Four years of waiting for a girl I had known for less than a year. Was it worth it? I could no longer tell. But as I had no other aims to follow, I plodded along dutifully, wondering why I listened to Mrs. Nightwing in the first place. Sahirah's money, though small in amount, was adequate enough to live off of while I tried to find employment. I never did secure steady work, but dozens of odd jobs found me. In the past four years I've been a chimney sweep, a horse groom, and a fisherman, among other things. Because I am not one to rely heavily on money, I saved up a decent amount, but for what I don't really know. There is no guarantee that Gemma will have me, and even so, what could we do? There is no place on earth that would have us.

Now I know for sure that Gemma is back from university. I had the odd fortune of bumping into her brother yesterday afternoon. Well no, that isn't entirely true. I walked up to the Doyle household and requested to speak to him about the whereabouts of his sister. Tom Doyle's reaction was quite like Brigid and Mrs. Nightwing's, though it was delayed until he finally recognized me.

"You're that guardian fellow," he whispered in shock. "I thought you were dead."

It took a lot of pressing before Tom revealed anything about Gemma. He was very reluctant and quite wary towards me, for obvious, yet frustrating reasons. I broke his sister's heart, he told me. He wasn't so sure he wanted to give me another chance to break her heart again, and obviously my ethnicity was also a strike against me. In the end, he told me that Gemma was to arrive the next day, and I then managed to convince him to let me speak with her. We agreed on a time, and that time is tomorrow.

However…not all is well. Tom also informed me that Gemma has a suitor in America. While I was spared the details, I can only imagine them too easily. I wish I could think of him as a disfigured, dull monster, though I know that Gemma could catch the eyes of the best looking men, and she is probably quite happy with him, whoever he is. I'm not certain how upset I feel over this knowledge, but a part of me does not feel threatened at all. After all, Gemma and I have a history and bond that none could best. I am as much a part of her as the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, which will never completely fade from view.

I suppose I finally managed to fall asleep because the next thing I know, the sun is coming up. For the first time in years, I welcome the pale rays instead of try to shut them out. I open the window and lean on the sill, letting my eyes drift over the still streets and the first signs of life among them. The air is balmy and calm, a prelude to a beautiful June day. It is nearing Gemma's birthday, and she will be twenty-one. It will be five years since the day we met. I wonder how she's changed, if she'll still want me. Does she look the same? My heart pounds within my ribcage, feeling much like a frenzied horse on the loose. Excitement. I simply cannot wait to see her. If anything, today will pull me off this threshold one way or another.

The meeting is to take place at the Doyle townhouse at three, with Tom present. I can't say I welcome his presence, but I really have no place to suggest otherwise. It is a blessing that he even allows me to speak with his sister, for despite our history, I am still Indian. Though I wonder when I came to accept this belittlement without challenge; I suppose I've been exhausted by my efforts to prove myself otherwise, though I do not take pride in this. Despite my ultimate sacrifice, I am still _that Indian_, undeserving of any little bit of praise, because sacrifice is all that is expected of me. I wonder if Gemma realized the weight of my action, though I curse myself for doubting her. _Of course she did. She saw past my skin color. _Oh, what does it matter anymore? I've gone to the end of the world and back, faced my greatest fears _and _my death for the love of my life, and _still _I am unworthy of anything higher than servitude. I'm tired of this beast called racism.

I set out earlier than needed so that I may stroll leisurely while I mentally prepare myself for what is to come. Despite my frustrations, I cannot keep the smile off my face, which earns me suspicious looks from the passersby, who then proceed to check their pockets, as if my happiness was rooted in relieving them of their possessions and not because I'm about to see the girl I love.

But I pay them no mind. The English sun is strong today, warming my black hair close to discomfort, but the breeze is enough to cool me, though it burdens the ladies I pass, who struggle to hold their ringlets neatly in place with one hand and hold their frilly parasols with the other. I suppress a laugh at their efforts, for I can imagine Gemma in their place too easily, cursing the wind for show and welcoming it secretly. I only hope that this hidden facet of her has not been slewed off in the years I have not seen her. Truthfully, I have no way of knowing if she is in any way the same girl, and if I am nervous about today, that is why.

I lean against an iron fence and pull my pocket watch out. It is still early. I tip my head up and acknowledge the blue sky, the white clouds floating across. There is a yellow balloon rising jerkily a few streets over. I listen closely, but hear no cries of a child that has carelessly let it go. I always wondered why people fret so much over the things they have let happen to them, why tears are shed over their own careless mistakes. The way I see it, there is no use feeling sorry for the things you have done. Each must be accountable for his own actions.

When the sun is out, London is a colorful place. Against the gray of the building is a myriad of hues. Deep green and red striped awnings, pastel dresses with matching parasols, carefully tended flowerboxes, pinstriped gentlemen…a living painting of the likes no artist could ever hope to capture. That is the twisted fortune of once being dead; you notice the full beauty of life.

I drop my head to examine the way the sunlight reflects off the engraved surface of my watch's gold case. There is something about the abrupt contrast between the sun's white-hot reflection and the immediate deep shadow beside it that fascinates me. Gold is a substance all its own, seeming to follow a different set of rules in terms of coloring. Perhaps I shall become a painter and attempt to capture these fleeting moments.

"Excuse me sir, do you have the time?"

I freeze. That voice. I'm not supposed to see her for another hour or so, with the mediation of her brother to bother us. But here she is, alone, unaware that I am me. I feel like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn't, but I cannot help myself. I raise my head slowly, taking in the sight of her from the ground up. Pale blue dress, fuller hips, smaller waist, slightly larger bust, lower neckline, pronounced collarbones… She gasps before I can drink in the sight of her face.

Before I can stop it, a grin spreads across my face. I shouldn't really, but it's as if everything I've planned to say for months evades me. "Something the matter, miss?"

She is torn, confused, uncertain if her sight is failing her. "Oh no, I – I…I'm dreadfully sorry, I thought you were someone else for a moment."

"For only a moment? I'd have hoped my memory would linger longer in your mind."

Her eyes widen and her cheeks grow pale. "Excuse me?" Her voice is no more than a whisper.

"I've missed you," I say simply, letting her figure it out on her own. Her balance falters and she sways, precariously close to fainting. I take her arm and bid her to sit on the iron bench nearby. "Are you alright?" I vaguely consider letting her think me but a strong resemblance of myself, and leaving before she hurts herself thinking of the logic. "Gemma."

Tears well in her green eyes until they bear similarities to the waters of an ornamental koi pond. "How?" she asks when her voice allows her to speak.

"It is a long story," I say, sitting next to her.

Gemma throws me a sidelong glance. "Are you really here?" she whispers. "Or will people see me speaking to myself?"

I laugh. "I assure you, I am quite alive." I spy a man walking near us. "Excuse me, sir, do you have the time?" I call out.

"Eight past two," he responds without breaking his gait. I turn and grin at Gemma.

"Oh my…Kartik?" She reaches out a hand to touch my arm. "You're alive."

"I am."

"After all these years…you're alive."

"Yes."

"You _have _been here all these years?"

"I was gone only a few weeks."

"Then why, pray, haven't you said anything to me about it?" Her eyes are a blaze of anger. _This _I did not anticipate.

"Gemma," I say softly. "I will explain everything in time, but you know we cannot speak in public."

"I suppose you're right." The anger subsides in her eyes, replaced by something else…something that suddenly makes everything around us matter less.

I do however tell her about her brother's planned intervention between us, which she immediately scoffs. "I was wondering what he was going on about. I thought he meant to present me with ancient suitors from his gentlemen's club." She laughs lightly, a sound I hadn't realized I'd missed as much until now. "I can't believe you agreed to it!"

"It was the only way I thought I'd get to see you," I say sheepishly.

"Well I am here now. I shall inform my brother that I no longer need his chaperoning."

"That is good."

"Kartik," she says, rather formally all of a sudden. She seems to put a wall up. "I don't know what to think of this." She pauses. "I'm not so certain it's real."

"It _is _real, Gemma."

"I need to think about this," she whispers. "Can you give me some time?"

Something within me darkens like a storm cloud. "I have given you enough time," I murmur in her ear. "Four years I have waited to see you again. I will not wait any longer." She appears not frightened, but slightly shocked.

"I meant in terms of hours, Kartik. I have just arrived yesterday and am bombarded with some many things." Gemma shakes her head. "Though none of them as vexing as this."

For a moment we look at each other. I suppose my pain at being close to slighted is apparent, for her eyes soften to a point they never have before. "Kartik, don't look at me like that, please. I suppose I am in shock. I…don't know what to say. Or do." She smiles softly, but I can sense that she is guarded, wary still.

"I know," I say. "I know what to say."

"Do you?"

"I've wanted to say it ever since I came back. It's silly, really."

"Let's hear it then."

"Let me take you out to dinner," I say softly. "We can talk then."

Gemma smiles. "I'd like that."

**Woo. That was long. No snazzy magicians yet, but it will come to that, I promise! What do you think of my Kartikcomesback!scenario? I gave it a lot of thought.**

**Advises everyone to watch the David Blaine parodies on YouTube,  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW!!! (Or I will sue your ass, David Blaine!) He just PISSED orange soda! Just...watch them. (And review!)**


	2. The Setup 2

**Thank you all for the reviews so far and to ThreeOranges for beta-ing! Enjoy!**

"You look lovely," I remark quietly. Gemma blushes, which only makes her look lovelier. It may be the wine, but I feel lighter and warmer than I ever have before. They say men do crazy things for love, have out of character moments, spend more money than they're worth. I suppose this is true, because four years ago I'd have never spent this much money on dinner alone. But something about Gemma's absence from my life has made me want to treat her like a queen, and that is why we sit at a table in a fine restaurant on Maiden Lane, each of us dressed impeccably.

"You haven't told me how you came back," Gemma says, fingering the stem of her wineglass. I watch her finger with interest as it drifts up and down and suddenly the room feels too warm for comfort. "Kartik."

"Hmm?" My head snaps up at this. "I am sorry," I say sheepishly. She cocks her head at me and shakes her head. A faint smile plays about her lips. Oh her lips… They are painted a dark red that matches the wine hues in her gown. I've never noticed how shapely they are, full and slightly turned down, as if her painful past is too much to fully force behind a mask.

"Kartik," Gemma says again.

"Sorry." I tear my eyes from her mouth and raise them to the stained glass skylight. She knows that I am nervous, distracted, feeling very much out of place, but thankfully she says nothing. I drink more of my wine, letting the rich flavors seep into me, coating my throat with warmth and reassurance. "Have you been to the realms?"

Gemma sighs. "Once or twice. I had decided to take a break from them while I was away at university. It was…hard to face them after…" She shakes her head again, tendrils of Titian hair gleaming gold in the candlelight as they sway gently against her cheeks. I wish I _was _a painter; this would surely be one of those moments I'd long to capture.

"How was university?" I ask, trying to brighten her mood.

Her lips pucker slightly. My face grows warm again. "First, I want to hear _your _story."

I tell her about how balance was restored to the land, and how my sacrifice was no longer necessary. She listens closely through all of this, interrupting me only when I tell her about waking up on the floor in the passage.

"Mrs. Nightwing helped bring you back?"

"And Brigid, yes."

"She knew you were perfectly alive and well?"

"Yes."

Gemma's eyes flash menacingly. "She wrote me to say that you and Miss McCleethy were buried in the graveyard near Spence. She promised to place rosemary at your grave for me."

"She told me not to go after you in America," I say flatly.

"I would have wanted you to," Gemma says softly.

"I know." Anger floods my veins. To think we could have been together earlier had the headmistress not interfered…

We are silent for a long time as we eat our entrees. This is not going anything like I had planned. But honestly, what did I expect? That Gemma would throw herself in my arms, claim her undying love for me, and we'd live happily ever after? There are too many constraints on us both. There is an undeniable love between us, but it has been somewhat buried under four years of separate lives. It would be much easier if we could just pick up where we left off, but things can't be uncomplicated between Gemma and I. She has pride, a point to make; it is a subtle game we must play to return to how we were. There is also the issue of her American suitor.

"I hear you have a Yankee paramour," I say before I can weigh the consequences of saying it.

Gemma freezes. A waiter whisks our plates away. Dessert is served, a particularly delicious looking Crème Brule. My attention, however, is set on watching her expression. "Who told you that?" she asks carefully.

"Your brother." She closes her eyes briefly. "So, what is he like?"

"He's very…congenial. A fellow scholar at university." Gemma dips her spoon into her dessert and brings it to her mouth. "This is delicious," she murmurs.

"What's his name?" I ask, leaving my spoon where it is.

"Ah, Alexander…Hamilton." She grimaces slightly. The name sounds vaguely familiar, though I cannot place it in my memory.

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-five," Gemma says. Her eyelashes flutter slightly in a way that can be easily mistaken for swooning. But I know her better; she is lying. But why? She catches sight of my expression and takes it to mean that I am upset. "Kartik, I thought you were dead. I couldn't…I had no reason to believe otherwise. You cannot blame me for this."

"I know."

She appears to crumple inward under my gaze. It pains me to see her this way. _Good God, Gemma, just admit that you're lying. Say there is no suitor in America._ Something changes in her demeanor; her face hardens, her eyes grow determined. I try the Crème Brule. She is right, it is quite delicious.

To my great surprise, Gemma produces a cigarette and long-handled holder from her handbag. I arch a brow at her, but say nothing as she carefully lights it and places it to her lips. I watch as she wets her lips delicately with her tongue and purses them around the mouthpiece. The room feels dangerously hot, as if someone has lit a fire right underneath me. I swallow hard, unable to ignore the gnawing sense of primordial desire clawing its way through my body. Her inhalation seems to be the longest moment of my life, as I wait with bated breath as if I was the one smoking, not her. Thin tendrils of smoke curl like gray ribbons in the air, partially obscuring her face, and I don't know whether I should hate them for obstructing my view or cherish them for the mysterious allure they give her. It is another moment I wish to capture on canvas.

All it takes is this one moment, this one action to show me just how much I have missed. This is not the same girl I knew four years ago; this is a woman too beautiful and worldly for me. She has traveled across oceans, received a formal education, met people, saved lives. She is a different person entirely, and it breaks my heart to know this.

She coughs and the breath I hadn't realized I had been holding rushes out. Just like that, the façade is dropped. Gemma is merely putting on a show for me, just another silly game that girls play. She acknowledges the mocking smile on my face with a scowl, and that tells me all I need to know. Four years in a foreign country aren't enough to change Gemma Doyle completely.

"I've told you my story, now tell me yours," I say, drinking from my wineglass. "How was university?"

Gemma sits back in her chair, a faux picture of comfort despite the sleek corset that straightens her. "It was quite enjoyable. I learned a lot, though my more important lessons were not taught in the classroom. But you understand that, no doubt."

I nod in agreement. I _do _understand. It must have been a crusade for her, four years of living by her own rules in a new country, not to mention just after a year of struggling with the creatures of the realms. But that is when we truly find ourselves, when we are faced with challenges before we have fully healed from our past.

"Where did you study?"

"Barnard, a college for women," Gemma says breezily. Her cigarette rests immobile in her hand, a column of ash slowing growing longer.

"I thought you said Mr. Alexander Hamilton was a fellow scholar," I say. "Or perhaps you meant _Alexandra_?" I wink at her.

Gemma's eyes grow as wide as saucers. "I meant that he was also attending university. At Colombia nearby," she sputters.

"I see."

* * *

Thank you for dinner, Kartik," Gemma says as I help her from the hansom. She looks at me in puzzlement as I pay the driver and send him on his way.

"Think I'll walk," I say brightly. "It's such a nice night." I do not mention that I want a few moments of privacy with her, and that is why I sent the driver away.

Gemma smiles. "When will I see you again?" Her voice is small, as if she doesn't really want to ask it. She seems to be radiating towards me, just as reluctant to end the night as I, but I shall not let her toy with me. She will either admit to her lies or be alone until she can. That is, if she truly is lying. The thought nags at me like an insect bite, the sort you want to ignore but can't.

I sigh, feigning perfect contentment. "I do not think Mr. Hamilton would approve of you spending any time with me." She is stricken, her face the very picture of horror, which she quickly tries to mask. I take her hand in mine and kiss it like a proper gentleman. "It was lovely seeing you again. I am so glad you've moved on." My words sound more of a deliberate sting than I intended. "You will make Alexander Hamilton a very happy man." With that, I drop her hand and turn to go.

Seconds later, she grabs my hand back, pulling me around. "Alexander Hamilton was one of the Founding Fathers of America," she hisses. "I made him up to appease my grandmother. There is no suitor waiting for me in America."

A large grin threatens to crack my face in two. "Well then, that changes everything."

Moments later, we find ourselves in the stables behind her house, hidden in the empty stall next to Ginger's. I had managed only a halfhearted pat to the familiar horse's nose before I was dragged along to privacy. I now have Gemma pressed up against the wall, my hands gripping her thigh and waist, as we kiss so deeply I nearly suffocate. Years of waiting spin incoherently in my mind. There is so much to say, so much to hear, yet all we can do is kiss and grope, sigh and moan, familiarizing ourselves physically with each other once more.

We break apart eventually, gasping for breath and weak in the knees. Gemma brushes hay from her hair and shavings from her skirts, and I…well I just wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and grin like the lovesick fool I am.

"I can't believe you're alive," she whispers. Tears threaten the composure of her voice. She clenches her hands and looks at them as if they've been keeping secrets from her. "It hurt so much, to tell myself that you were gone…just as we found each other. It was like opening up a present you've wanted so badly for so long, only to have it stolen right from under your nose. And now you're back. All of that pain…for nothing."

I cup the back of her neck gently and pull her to me. "It doesn't need to be in vain. We could…" She cuts me off with a kiss.

"Let's not think of the future." Her lips trail kisses along my jaw.

"As you wish."

We sink to the floor of the stall and somewhere in the back of my mind I am thankful that the stable boy has been thorough in keeping the shavings fresh. For the first time ever in our existence together, we do not speak of the realms, or of what disasters may come. Instead, we are perfectly content to hold each other, our forbidden presence only betrayed by soft murmurs of what _is_, emotions that cannot be expressed in words. For once it's not obligation that binds us, it is merely freedom, and it tastes so sweet.

"I best go in to avoid suspicion," Gemma says after some time. Moonlight shines through slits in between the wooden boards of the stable, throwing lines of bluish-white light on her face. I wind one of her curls around my finger and think of an excuse to see her again. She purses her lips and appears to consider my silence. "Kartik," she says, touching my cheek lightly. "Do you know how I really know it is you?"

"How?" I hadn't realized she was debating my identity.

"You smell the same." She leans back into me, burying her face in my neck. Gooseflesh erupts under my clothing.

"I do hope that is a good thing." I've never considered my scent before…only hers - a delicious combination of floral smells from her various cosmetics and something deeper, her true scent, something I cannot name but cannot get enough of.

Gemma kisses me full on the lips. "It certainly is a good thing."

I hold her to me more a few more moments, wishing that we could just stay here forever, a permanent fixture in the stall. Of course that might be unsafe when the stall's occupant is returned. Shame.

"Where are you staying?" Gemma asks as we brush the shavings from our clothing. I give her the address. "I may have to call on you sometime," she says with a smile.

"You are welcome anytime," I respond.

She leans against the doorframe. "Like when?"

"Tomorrow night?"

"Mmm…" She taps her chin coyly and looks to the rafters. "I have a prior engagement, though now that I think of it…it might be more enjoyable with company."

"I am listening."

"There is an illusionist performing at the Lyceum Theatre tomorrow night. I'd like for you to join me."

"Ah, the magnificent Gemma Doyle wishes to watch mere mortals do magic tricks?" I ask, grinning widely. "How darling!"

She laughs. "There is nothing wrong with a bit of harmless illusion to pass the time."

"No, of course not. I would love to go."

While I watch her sneak back to the house a few minutes later, I am hit with a sense of déjà vu so strong I almost forget my bearings. That is, until I realize that I don't live here anymore; I live across London, much further away. Strangely enough though, I feel closer to her now than I did years ago, when I lived in her own stable-yard. I smile at the memory, grateful that it's in the past.

**Alexander Hamilton... -snort- Oh, silly Gemma! Smoking and making up men to make Kartik jealous, tsk tsk.**

**Dreams of making out with Kartik in a horse stall,  
LunaEquus**

**If you've seen the David Blaine parodies, then you will appreciate this:**

Kartik: Gemma? Gemma, help! Oh God, I'm a tree. He turned me into a tree.  
Gemma: Oh my God - Kartik?! He turned you into a tree. HE TURNED YOU INTO A TREE! Holy eff!  
Kartik: I can't feel my branches! I have like, roots growing out of me or something!  
Gemma: Just - stay calm! omgomgomg! Change him back, David Blaaaaaaaaine!   
Kartik: Gemma? He turned me back but I'm covered in sap... Things are STICKING to me, Gemma!  
Gemma: Great, he's all sticky! Do you know how hard it is to wash sap off? Are you just going to stand there, David Blaine? Can't you do something? Maybe offer a moist towelette or something?!  
Kartik: I'll sue your ass, David Blaine! No, I'm not signing the release! I'm not signing... -tries to push camera guy away- AUGH! He's sticking to me! I can't...get unstuck...from the camera guy...OMG.  
Gemma: Does it hurt?! 

**Oh Lord. On that note - PLEASE REVIEW! **


	3. The Setup 3

**Thanks for all the reviews so far! I'm glad so many people are accepting this as their "fourth book". I aim to resolve a lot of issues people had with TSFT, and also I wish to change Gemma's character into a more compassionate girl. Did anyone else notice how badly she treated Kartik in TSFT? He'll get all he deserves and more, and she'll have fun too. I'll eventually offer reasons for Gemma's character changes, but I honestly don't think she's too off, considering how much older she is now. Anyway, lots of thanks and chocolate to ThreeOranges for beta-ing! Enjoy!**

"You never did tell me what sparked your interest in illusionism, Gemma," I say, leaning over towards her slightly. My eyes haven't been able to settle quite yet, for the Lyceum Theatre is quite a spectacle of grandeur. Despite the many distractions, my attention is tuned to Gemma's presence next to me. Her elbow just grazes mine on the armrest we share. I must talk to keep my mind off of it, lest my body temperature rises to an uncomfortable (and alarming) level.

Gemma goes to twirl one of her curls round her finger but stops halfway, remembering her place in public. "It is not so much illusionism itself that has brought me here, but an old friend instead."

I sit back deeply into the plush velvet seat and fight to keep the jealousy from my voice. "Oh?"

Her eyes twinkle like they do whenever she knows she has the upper hand. "Yes. My friend, he is to perform tonight."

An icy chill claws through my gut. "I see. And is he quite talented?"

"He is. Perhaps afterwards I should introduce you to him."

"I don't think so," I say, unable to keep venom from burning the edges of my words.

"Oh, but Kartik! He should very much like to have company tonight. It is, after all, his very last show."

"That's quite alright," I mumble, fixating my eyes upwards on the chandelier. It looks so very heavy, suspended from such a thin chain. What if it was to fall on us? No, I don't suppose that would happen. Gemma's illusionist friend would surely save her, a grand finale for his last show. "Wait a moment," I say, thinking of something suddenly. "Did you say _last _show?"

Gemma laughs lightly. "He had retired for a few years, but the lure of the stage proved too strong for him. However, his cane makes it quite difficult to perform sleight of hand like he used to."

I let out a slow breath to calm myself. "I thought you meant that he…" _Was a potential suitor that could threaten my chances with a little magic trick or two._

"I know," Gemma says. Her lips are painted again tonight, a deep matte red. They curve upwards in an incredibly sultry smile. Where did she learn such things? If my cheeks are as red as her lips, I shall be doomed. I should very much like to kiss her, but as we are in a crowded theatre, that will not be happening.

However I cannot resist asking one thing. "Whatever did they teach you in America?" I, of course, do not mean things learned in a classroom.

"Oh, the usual subjects. Philosophy, literature, art, science…" She sighs, completely missing the figurative inflection of my question. "You would like it in America."

"I'm sure you're right."

Above us, the great chandelier dims so that the theatre darkens considerably. The lighting seems to have a direct effect on the rest of the audience, whose conversation subsides into a low hum of whispering. Spotlights fix themselves on the stage, and a single figure walks out. He has a slight limp but his charisma is immediately apparent. The audience applauds as he introduces himself.

"Doctor Theodore Van Ripple," Gemma whispers along with the man onstage. "Master Illusionist."

* * *

We remain in our seats once the show is over. "I still cannot comprehend how he did some of those things," I exclaim, turning my body towards Gemma. A few lingering patrons eye us suspiciously and whisper in low voices. I ignore them, and for once, Gemma doesn't seem to care. Instead she smiles.

"Well it isn't magic, that is for sure."

"Yes, which somehow makes it that more appealing."

"How so?"

"Imagine disciplining yourself to be able to make such subtle and precise executions," I say excitedly. My interest grows with each word that spills out of my mouth. I hold up my hands. "Picture it, Gemma. I could learn to do those sorts of things."

She arches a brow. "You want to have skilled hands?"

"Well don't you?"

Her mouth goes slack in confusion. "I'd want to be good with my hands?"

"No, you'd like for me to be good with _my _hands." She blinks a few times and blushes. I grin widely and look around to make sure there is no one left so that I may kiss her. A few ushers remain. Damn them.

Gemma pats my hand. "Come, let's go visit the master illusionist himself. Perhaps he can teach you a thing or two."

She knocks on the dressing room door curtly. It opens to reveal Doctor Van Ripple himself, jacket unbuttoned and bowtie undone. His wizened eyes grow wide at the sight of us; clearly he was not expecting company.

"Good evening, Doctor Van Ripple," Gemma says calmly. "We just wanted to stop by and commend you on your final act."

"Dear lady," he says slowly. He shakes his head and appears to come to his senses. "Do come in. Please. I'm afraid I wasn't expecting anyone, but all is well." The magician walks quickly ahead of us to the closet and sticks his head in. I can hear strained whispers from beyond the rack of costumes. Suddenly, a figure emerges, a stagehand, buttoning his waistcoat in haste. He pushes past us without so much as an apology. Gemma turns her eyes to me, a bemused and knowing sparkle in them.

Dr. Van Ripple turns to us sheepishly. He offers us chairs to sit on, but Gemma declines. "We shan't be long sir."

The air is tense. "Yes, well then. You enjoyed the show?"

"Very much," I say earnestly. He looks from Gemma to myself in genuine surprise, but he offers no negative reaction.

"I thought you had retired from the stage, sir?" Gemma asks. I've honestly no idea of her motives, though it doesn't seem he is the friend she made him out to be. I spy a book of legerdemain on the vanity; the page shown is that of a card trick.

"Ah, well the venue offered a generous amount. Such a glimmer is hard to resist."

"And that is why I've come, dear sir." Gemma reaches into her purse and I can't help but notice that Van Ripple's dark eyes are fixated on her like a hawk watches its prey.

"Why is that, my lady?"

"It seems that I once cheated you out of a very valuable possession years ago. I'd like to reimburse you for its worth."

My lips part in surprise. _This _was the magician that had worked side by side with Wilhelmina Wyatt? That would mean the object in question would be the slate once used to communicate the words of a mute woman and the spirits that haunted her.

While Gemma pays the magician, my eyes return to the book. _Three Card Monte,_ the page reads. It shows a picture of a hand holding up the Queen of Hearts.

"Can _you _find the lady, dear lad?" I turn around with a start as the magician peers over my shoulder. He points to the illustration.

"I am sorry," I apologize.

"For what?"

I am not really sure.

Dr. Van Ripple sizes me up. Something in his gaze reminds me of a hungry animal. "Have you any experience with prestidigitation, sir?"

"Pardon?"

"Prestidigitation. Legerdemain. Sleight of hand."

"Oh…no I don't, sir." My eyes find Gemma's. She frowns at the magician's back.

He strokes his mustache slowly. "Are you interested in the fine art of illusionism?"

"It is an intriguing art," I say.

"Ah, yes…intriguing. An art that requires skill and subtlety, yet enigma and command!" He throws his arms wide as if introducing an act. "You take seemingly ordinary circumstances and create a world of wonder," He lowers his voice to a theatrical hush. "and magic."

Gemma catches my eye again. She imitates the magician's gesture, only a faint trail of shimmering dust follows her fingers. I do not need to look far for real magic.

The magician speaks on. "It takes a fine man to execute the acts with not only respect, but also conviction. For all of an hour or so, your audience is held enraptured in a world of fantasy. And it is the magician's job to keep up the illusion."

"That certainly sounds fascinating," Gemma says. "But I'm afraid we must be going."

"Of course. Don't let this old man keep you. It is, after all, my last show." All of a sudden, the man seems older as the twinkle leaves his eyes. I know Gemma wants to leave, but I cannot bring myself to take a step.

"Sir, would you happen to know of a way I could learn prestidigitation?"

Dr. Van Ripple loses nearly ten years of age as his face lights up again. "Ah, of course! I could take you in as my student! For a fee, of course."

Of course. A fee. Gemma takes my arm and gently pulls me to the door. "No thank you, sir, I will look elsewhere then."

He takes a step after us. "But wait! Perhaps I was a bit rash. If you are interested, I could take you in under my wing, free of charge. You shall be the world's next master illusionist! I will manage you."

"You will manage me," I repeat. "What is the catch?"

He puts a hand to his heart as if wounded. "Dear boy, there is no catch!" He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, away from Gemma. I freeze in sudden panic. Gemma gapes at us. "Picture it! What better illusionist could there be than one that is authentic? An Indian prince with mystic powers!"

I escape from his arm. "I do not wish to exploit my race, sir," I say coldly. Gemma takes my arm once more.

Van Ripple looks at both of us. "Of course no magical prince would be complete without his entrancing princess," he remarks calmly. A fleeting image of Gemma wearing an assistant's revealing costume brings a flush to my face and neck. I imagine myself unlacing the back of her black satin corset and tracing my fingers along her bare spine…

"Why?" Gemma asks suddenly. "Why do you want to turn Kartik into a master illusionist? Is it because of the money?"

"Gemma!" I hiss under my breath. Her rudeness shocks me out of my fantasy, but the magician is not fazed.

"I'll admit to succumbing to greed more than once in my day, but my time on stage was always, _always_ for the love of the act itself. The looks on your audience's faces, the unblinking enrapture, the smiles and the gasps and the laughs, _that _is what magic truly is." He paces the short width of the vanity area. "I am too old for the stage myself, I'm afraid. I proved that for certain tonight when I was unable to conceal the scarf properly in my sleeve. Tell me, do either of you believe in fate?"

A laugh escapes me. "Yes," I say. Gemma remains silent.

The magician smiles at me. "Imagine the odds that an eager prospective student knocks on my door the night of my very last show. It is a sign, to be sure. You will become my protégé and take my place on stage."

* * *

We emerge onto the London streets not too long after. Gemma is sulking, but I cannot keep the smile from my face.

"He is a shady man, Kartik."

"As am I, Gemma. I can look out for myself."

She sighs. "Yes, I suppose you can. Though if I see you darting out of his closet, I shall never speak to you again." She turns her face upwards to me with that alluring smile of hers again. I gently push her into the shadows between two close buildings and trap her against the wall.

"Excuse me, miss," I whisper, tracing her lips with my finger. "Where did you learn this?"

"I believe I first smiled as an infant, Kartik. So I'd have to say I learned it in India." She laughs lightly at her own joke.

"Oh hush," I murmur, claiming her lips with my own. She gasps, her voice fluttering around somewhere in her mouth. I shall find it. I slip my tongue in between her lips, savoring the taste that is not sweet nor bitter, but her. Simply Gemma. I press against her harder and her hands move to rest at either side of my neck. I moan softly, wishing we were somewhere else, preferably a private room with a bed. "This…is…a bad…idea," I manage to say between kisses.

"So thrilling though," Gemma gasps, rolling her head to the side so that I may kiss her neck. I open my mouth and lick the spot where I can feel her pulse, pumping wildly fast like my own. She giggles and tries to shrug me off. I kiss her mouth once more and pull her back out onto the street.

"Years ago, you'd have never done that in public," I tease.

"Years ago, I had no time for pleasure." Her cheeks are flushed. I want nothing more than to offer her pleasure, but I cannot will the words to come. We walk towards her house at Belgravia, for it is a nice night and we have much to talk about.

"You seem to have no trouble doing things without your family's consent," I remark.

"I am longer no longer much of a concern to them." She tells me about how she declined her season for want of a different life. "I never was going to come back here again," she admits. "But I wanted to visit my friends."

"And you found a friend you weren't expecting," I say with a smile.

"Yes," she whispers. "I certainly did." We sneak into the shadows near her family's townhouse. "I am looking to rent out a few rooms, to live alone."

"Oh?" I cup her cheek with one hand and touch her precious curls with the other. "Are you certain you want to live alone?"

Gemma shakes her head and kisses me sweetly. "When can we see each other again?" She asks almost wistfully. It charms me.

I place my forehead to hers and take her hands in mine. "Whenever you want," I murmur. "I am hoping that will be tomorrow."

"I'd rather it be forever," she whispers softly.

Something in my heart breaks and is quickly rebuilt stronger than before, that lovesick ache that sets your chest on fire with love. Her words are exactly my own desire. I know it is so. Whatever happened to us four years ago in the Cave of Sighs has blessed us with this knowledge. Our hearts sing duets in perfect harmony, conducted by some preordained path we were destined to walk endlessly. Our love is a forever sort of thing, with no end or beginning. We shall always be together, even if we are apart, that much was practically proved by my miraculous escape from the Tree of All Souls. It is this understanding that is the only thing that gives me strength enough to pull my lips from hers.

"Tomorrow," I promise, before I am off running so that I cannot turn back.

**Ahh, plot AND romance! Because of my prior interest in illusionism, Van Ripple's character was a treat to me. Yes, he is gay, and yes, he was a little too familiar with Kartik. And YES, Kartik will immerse himself in legerdemain. But this will all play out soon. **

**Learned how to light road flares and was just certified in CPR, AED, and first aid (for my mounted patrol job!),  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW!!! I'd like to hear any and all thoughts about my story. Thank you, lovelies! (I am partly writing this for you! HEAL after TSFT! HEAL!) **


	4. The Setup 4

**Thanks for the reviews, guys! ThreeOranges is Beta Reader Extraordinaire! Enjoy this steamy chapter! **

Last night was possibly the longest night of my life. Instead of anxiety keeping me awake, it was giddiness. I am so full of love for Gemma Doyle that I might go mad; I'm full to bursting, and my heart is the source of it all. It is all I can do to keep my teeth clenched shut in a maniacal grin so that I don't start singing love songs and reciting sonnets. Though I've not read many sonnets (and remember none), I feel it is the sort of thing that will spew from my lips if I do not keep them shut. I've never felt this way before.

So imagine my surprise when the knock on my door this morning was not the harassed-looking landlady collecting rent, but Gemma, bright-eyed and quite a sight to see. We talked all morning and over tea about our separate lives in each other's absence, and naturally Gemma had more to say. But even with four years of foreign living behind her, she couldn't think of much to say, so we had to come up with more creative ways to occupy our mouths. Now it is late afternoon and we have all but wasted the day catching up in more ways than one.

"What was it like in the Tree?" Gemma asks, wrapping her arms around my waist. I accept her into my embrace, pulling her close to me on the bed. Our bodies seem to fit together like pieces of a puzzle, despite the bothersome clothing between us, and the sensations such close contact produce make it hard to concentrate on anything but the urgent things occurring down below. Outside, a storm is brewing, dark clouds knitting together to form great shapes that resemble a lady's many undergarments, much like the ones that rest between Gemma's dress and bare flesh. How ironic. "Kartik?"

"Hungh?" My voice is strangled. _Mind over matter!_

"The Tree," she repeats calmly. "What was it like inside?" She shifts her legs, unintentionally increasing the pressure below to disastrous proportions.

"It was very…hard." I could slap myself. "I mean, difficult. Actually, no, that's not true at all. I've no idea what it was like. Is it hot in here?"

Gemma looks at me strangely. "A bit humid, yes, but the storm will settle things soon."

_Oh, you've no idea, dear one._

The insistent pressure becomes impossible to ignore. I push on top of her, kissing her quite forcefully. She accepts my advances and opens her mouth to be tasted but I do not give her a chance to return the favor when she tries to take charge. All I can think of is kissing, touching, feeling her everywhere, all at once.

"Gracious!" she exclaims breathlessly. "Kartik, what has gotten into you?" I sit up so that I am kneeling. Gemma is sprawled beneath me, flustered and breathing heavily. Her breasts rise and fall in a hypnotic manner. A low rumble of thunder cuts a swath through the heavy air, but it does not do much to clear my head. "Kartik?"

My hand rests on her shin. I slide it up, dragging her skirts with it, disappointed to find blasted stockings shielding her legs from my touch. "Gemma," I whisper huskily. "You should…" _Take your clothes off. _Why can I not say it?

Gemma sits up and brushes a sweaty curl out of my face. Her hands are cool on my flushed skin. "Kartik, you look uncomfortable." _I am. _I let my forehead drop forward onto her shoulder, and her hands move to the back of my neck. She kisses the corner of my eye, my cheekbone, my jaw, then lets her lips hover near my ear. "You're not the one wearing a bloody corset though."

I groan, realizing that she's patronizing me. Doesn't she realize the urgency here? The expression of my sexual desire isn't exactly subtle. Or maybe she is incredibly stupid? "You aren't uncomfortable at all?" I ask.

Her eyelashes flutter against my cheek. "Perhaps a bit…uncomfortable." We lock eyes and I understand perfectly.

My hands find the soft swells of her breasts and her lips elicit a noise I've never heard from her before, a noise I want to hear again and again. "Then take it off," I finally manage to say. "Take all of it off."

"I can't," she says. I squeeze her breasts perhaps a bit harder than I meant to, noting the feel of them with a strangled moan. _I must have her. And soon._ Gemma licks her full lips slowly. "Not without help, that is." She kisses me firmly, her hands cupping over mine.

I was wrong in thinking that the evil of the world lies in the Winterlands. No, that is not the case. Evil can be found in its purest form around the waist of Gemma Doyle, in the earthly vessel of a corset. Whoever invented such devices certainly was not thinking of urgent young men whose fingers won't work correctly under specific circumstances. After a few stressful minutes, I manage to loosen it enough to pull it off over her head, throwing it across the room in one swift motion.

Making love to her is completely indescribable in words. I can only compare it to experiences, fleeting moments in life when something particular stays with me. It is pure relief, a breath of fresh air, the moment the pregnant clouds finally send forth their rain. It is only too coincidental that the impending storm outside matches what happens between us. In the muggy air, our bodies radiate heat, damp with humidity and perspiration from our exertions. Outside, the wind whistles like a lecherous man peeking in, eager to catch a glimpse of Gemma's bare breasts and my lips upon them. Pressure builds to near unbearable states, and moans rip through us like thunder, until I can't possibly take any more of the heat. And then finally, the rain…

We lay together upon the hopeless tangle of sheets, a sticky mess of flushed faces and messy hair. I am still reeling from the experience, staring wide-eyed at the dark ceiling in absolute awe. Just a few nights prior I had stared at the same stretch of peeling paint, begging for it to fall on me so that I might sleep peacefully without torturing myself with _what if?_ And now Gemma lies in my arms, every so often smoothing her leg against mine. I kiss her damp forehead, feeling so full of every possible romantic thing to say that I cannot even comprehend the words. I only know their meanings, and hope she understands.

Rain pelts rapidly against the window. Outside resembles the runoff of water used to clean paintbrushes, a mess of murky colors that mean nothing to some, yet everything to others. My life has often felt like that runoff, as if I was deserving of nothing better than the drain, but today I am the painter, making sure the good colors are not wasted. My arms tighten around Gemma; despite the heat, I just want her to be closer to me. So many sweet nothings accumulate at the very tip of my tongue, but for the life of me I cannot say them. It is simply too much to get out. Instead, I kiss her, nuzzle her neck, stroke her fingers, and keep her close to make certain I do not lose her again.

In turn, Gemma does the same to me. She kisses my throat, traces the line of hair on my lower abdomen, and runs her hands over the muscles of my arms. Her eyes lock with mine, verdant windows that today show clear skies. I see it all in her eyes, the bubbling feeling of love that cannot be transcribed, the feeling that lights you up and sets you flying and makes you want to cry. She is searching, frustrated, just like I am. The words, everything that cannot be said (but so dearly wants to be!) pooling just beyond her rosy, unpainted lips. I kiss her, slipping my tongue inside. If these feelings cannot be said then at least they can be tasted. She drapes her arms over my shoulders and presses herself to me. And the storm rages on.

"It is so hot," Gemma whispers when we lie panting afterwards. "I cannot breathe." She jumps up towards the window and opens it wide. When she turns back to me, the sky is lit up with lightening and it is as if the goddess Selene has escaped from a Poynter painting, a pale curvy body illuminated from behind. She is absolutely beautiful, seemingly tailored to specific preferences I never knew I had. The wind from the open window blows her wild curls about her shoulders and I can no longer remain on my back, watching her.

We sit together under the open window, where rain is blown so that the cool drops occasionally fall on our skin.

"Thank you," Gemma says suddenly.

"For what?"

"For what you did four years ago. The sacrifice." Her large eyes seem to glow in the stormy light.

I brush my lips across her forehead. "That is the past, Gemma."

"I know, but I never got the chance to thank you for it. Or say goodbye."

"Well it is good that you never said goodbye, as I'm back now.

Gemma's fingertips graze my cheek in a soft caress. "Please tell me…what was the Tree like? Did it hurt you at all?"

"No," I murmur as her fingers touch my lips softly. I kiss them. "I have no recollection of my time there, only the feelings I felt when I emerged. I suppose it was like being an infant in a womb."

"It had your heartbeat," Gemma says sadly. "And the wind through the branches whispered my name. I thought it was you…"

"I am sure it was."

"But you said…"

"I said I had no memories of the Tree. I do have memories of afterwards." My hand travels the length of her side, from the hourglass curve of her hip and waist to her soft breast. She certainly has grown in the past few years; the result is quite pleasing to the eyes, and of course to the touch.

"And?" She kisses under my jaw.

"And all I could think of was being with you."

"Oh, Kartik," she whispers. "That is all I've been thinking about since you died." Her eyes are so beautiful. I could gaze into them for days. I feel as if they hold my entire life within them. She lightly brushes her fingers over my thigh, towards a private place that is not so private anymore.

"I never died, Gemma. It is the past; put it behind you." I close my eyes in concentrated bliss as her hand reaches my most tender spot. My head falls back to rest against the wall beneath the window.

"It isn't that easy, Kartik." She leans into me. "I made that suffering a part of me."

I have nothing to say to that. I think of what my life would be like if I had thought she had died instead, and I cannot summon the words to explain how terrible it'd be. Gemma _has _changed, and that is not something that can be undone, nor would I want it to be. I picture her years ago, the stubborn, feisty girl, and I look at her now, naked, vulnerable, and honest. She spent years accepting my death, only to find that her suffering was in vain, yet she still accepts me. Dare I assume she loves me?

I cup her chin and bring her face to mine. "Look forward, Gemma," I whisper as softly as possible. Her eyes search mine in desperation. "We can have a future together."

A smile tugs her shapely lips upwards. "I should love that, I think. But…I must find work so that I may live on my own. And you…?"

I grin. "I shall be the greatest illusionist in London," I exclaim.

Gemma laughs. "Oh, will you?" I can tell she thinks it a silly idea.

"Yes, and I shall need a beautiful assistant."

"Good luck finding one then. Though if she lays one finger on you I shall have to kill her."

"I never took you to be the suicidal sort. The only beautiful assistant I'd want is you."

"You can't always get what you want," she says. I give her a pleading look. She sighs. "Kartik, I've enough scandal in my life as it is without parading around in one of those revealing costumes!" My expression does not change. "The audience would not appreciate a magician's assistant with the shoulders of a boy," she states huffily.

I look at the shoulders in question and see nothing even remotely masculine about them, but I know I cannot change her perception of her own body.

"Then label me a degenerate because I greatly admire your ill-defined "boy" shoulders. And I would like to see you parade around in those revealing costumes."

Gemma blushes and rolls her eyes to the sky with a smile playing about her lips. "We shall see."

The streets outside are silent save for the gentle dripping of rain from awnings and branches. The storm has passed and it has indeed brought relief from the suffocating heat. A cool breeze washes over us, evaporating the last traces of our lovemaking from our naked flesh. I pull Gemma into my arms once more, reaching around to disentangle the knots from her sweet-smelling hair. She falls limp in my arms and kisses my shoulder lazily. I can feel her heart beating against my chest and I swear its pattern matches my own.

**Aww! I love them. You've gotta give Kartik credit for staying chaste for her. Of course Gemma had V-power too, but not because she was saving it for him...she didn't know he was alive! But yeah, Kartik was verrrrry horny! Le siiiigh!**

**Has the coolest job ever,  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I don't mean to be a stinker, but less people review for each chapter. As I'm human, I require a bit of extrinsic motivation, and that comes in the form of constructive criticism and reviews! Wouldn't want me to get discouraged, would ya? Mwahaha threats! That is what I'm good at. **


	5. The Setup 5

**Thanks for all the GREAT reviews so far! As always, my beta reader ThreeOranges is the best! Enjoy!**

It is amazing how only a few weeks can change your life.

There I was in the beginning of June, an aimless youth with no discernable future and no cares other than to be reunited with a lost love. In the span of just a few days, Gemma came back to me, we made plans to move in together, and a career opportunity landed at my feet in the form of an old magician and a deck of cards. From the moment Gemma and I consummated our relationship and cast all doubts away, I gained a new outlook on my life. There are no duties to fulfill in the realms, no brotherhoods to work for or to avoid, and no gypsy caravans to stay with. I've lost people's expectations and gained my own life.

My first hurtle to overcome was that of a job. I met with Dr. Van Ripple as agreed and he instructed me in the subtle art of illusionism. We started in small things, card tricks and the like. He was greatly pleased with me and declared that he'd never come across such a promising student, and that my nimble fingers and attention to detail were nearly flawless. I took the magician's praise with a secretive smile, never once revealing my past, which had naturally given me a predisposition for such skills. One of the first tricks I mastered was the trick I saw in Van Ripple's dressing room, the _Three Card Monte_, a card trick that challenges you to "find the lady" out of three cards. I approached Gemma with the trick, rearranging the cards in the correct fashion while her sharp eyes watched closely at the order I switched them.

"The queen is there," she said confidently, pointing to the middle card. I revealed the card with a smirk. "Jack of clubs? But…but how? I watched the cards exactly!"

"It's magic," I replied mysteriously, replacing the cards in my pocket. Gemma's face was the very picture of awe and curiosity.

"Kartik, I thought you of all people would tell me the secret."

I held up my hand. "Magician's Code of Honor," I declared.

She sighed in acceptance and snaked her arms around my neck. "Have you learned how to make things disappear yet?"

"Like what?"

"My dress, perhaps?"

And it was at that time that I learned of the influence illusion had on people. Even if they inherently know that it is not real magic, the impossibility of the trick is enough to inspire them, hold them in fascination and respect for the magician. At that precise moment, I was not just Kartik to Gemma, I was something to be held in esteem and reverence. And I cannot say that I didn't enjoy it immensely, especially as her mouth dipped below the level of my belt and showed me a magic entirely her own.

I began frequenting music halls and theatres to watch other magicians perform their acts. Gemma accompanied me to a few, but quickly became bored of the tricks that were inevitably shared by all of the performers. The repetition didn't faze me; on the contrary, it was beneficial as it gave me many chances to see how each individual executed the trick and how I might do it differently. I noticed that even the most popular performers made mistakes, though they usually went unnoticed by the appreciative audiences. Every night after a show, it was the same for me. My mind would go into a frenzy of thoughts, fantasies, and worries. I feared that my race would set me apart in a negative fashion, despite Van Ripple's reassurances that it wouldn't. I thought of the many things that could go wrong, but mostly I pictured myself and Gemma performing flawlessly together with the sort of passion we attain in bed. In my fantasies, she was always my assistant, despite her lack of interest in the position. When I told her of these wishes of mine, she'd always tut and shake her head, and part of me wondered where her sense of adventure had vanished.

Towards the end of July, however, strange things began happening in London's West End. It started one night at Wilton's Music Hall, where a newcomer to the field was to perform. I watched his act with the critical eye Van Ripple had instilled in me, noting his many mistakes, but attributing them to his obvious stage fright. His assistant was a petite, bird-like thing, as nervous and flighty-looking as the magician she worked for. A cabinet was wheeled out and I immediately recognized it as the sort of cabinet required for the _Disembodied Princess _trick. I ignored the magician's setup to the effect and watched the cabinet to discern the traps hidden within it. The assistant took her place inside the cabinet and was shut away. The audience gasped as the magician revealed wide, flat blades that shone in the stage's bright light like dressing room mirrors. These blades were thrust into the cabinet, seemingly cutting the assistant into thirds. That was all normal protocol for the trick. What happened next, however, was not anticipated.

A volunteer was called onto stage and was asked to walk around the cabinet, in order to dismiss any ideas of fraud. The magician watched closely as the volunteer, a man of average build and dark hair, fingered the blade handles.

"Oh no," the man said. "This won't do at all." He quickly grabbed the blade's handle and pulled it halfway out, angled it differently, and (by now I knew what was going to happen, though I couldn't react quickly enough to stop it) plunged it back into the cabinet. A muffled scream was heard from the poor assistant inside, and the first indication of her untimely end seeped out through the cracks in the bottom of the cabinet. The magician let out a shout and the hall flew into pandemonium as the cabinet slowly opened to reveal the assistant, slumped but held in place from the waist up, where the flat blade separated her from the legs crumpled on the floor. The volunteer had disappeared, and though I ran backstage to help the stagehands search, I could not find him.

When I returned home, I was not surprised to find Gemma there waiting patiently with her nose in a book. Though we had not yet moved in together, she often stayed with me for days, though she never revealed the excuses she fed to her family. Like always, she read my expression immediately and asked why I looked so distressed. When I told her of the murder, she immediately sought to comfort me, though the news greatly upset her as well.

"You were there," she said. "You could have been hurt."

"I was but a face in the crowd, Gemma. The murder seemed deliberate."

Gemma was frozen in worry, a marble statue of panic. For a moment she looked a stranger to me. "Yes, but you were still there."

Later that night, long after she had fallen asleep in my arms, I still could not shake the image of an innocent assistant cut in half from my head, nor the nagging feeling that something more was occurring. That night plagued me with incomprehensible dreams of dark-haired volunteers glowing faintly blue in the dark, as if they were part of the act themselves.

It took only three more shows for me to be convinced of a pattern. Each time, an assistant was murdered in an act requiring a volunteer to take the stage, though each trick was different. By then, the newspapers were filled with the murders and London was fearing the next Jack the Ripper. Though shaken, I did not abandon my work under Van Ripple, for if anything, I might help catch the murderer if perhaps I was on stage myself. I expressed this idea to my mentor and he dismissed me.

"My dear lad, you are not experienced enough yet. You have no signature tricks, no assistant!"

After a bit of persuasion, I finally managed to convince him to let me assist on stage at an show one of his acquaintances was to perform. Normally, a magician would never take a stagehand on at such short notice, but the show was imminent and he was short-staffed, not to mention one of the tricks required a lot of mechanical work. Sadly, the magician never got the chance to show his state-of-the-art trick, for earlier on, the murderous volunteer struck again, fixing the guillotine so that its blade did not come unhinged.

This time, concealed behind the curtains, I managed to get a close look at his face as he tampered with the equipment, and despite my efforts to stop the show and bring to light this murderer (I was rudely pushed away and told to shut it - they never did seem keen on working with me, no doubt because of my skin color), the assistant lost her life. From that moment on, performers and stagehands alike were much more careful and united to find the man terrorizing London's West End. I never forgot each and every one of his features, which I had published in a few of the private circulation magic journals. Unfortunately, this knowledge would not serve a casual witness, for the culprit had taken to disguising himself. However, I know firsthand his face, gaunt with the haunted eyes of a madman, and I am confident I'd recognize him again despite whatever wigs and makeup he used.

Tonight, I'm to go see a show at the Adelphi Theatre. Gemma is worried for me, as she often is before I go out to these shows. She's convinced that I'll act rashly and get myself killed, though she knows I am not the one to act on impulse, for the most part at least.

"Stay home tonight," she says. "I'll go to the matinee with you tomorrow." Gemma looks so precious, sitting in the armchair with her knees drawn up to her chest, that I can't possibly go out now.

"Alright," I say, and a visible look of relief overtakes her face. She stands up and crosses the room to me, taking my face into her hands.

"Thank you," she murmurs, kissing me sweetly on the mouth. There is something so soft and delicate about the way she is acting that it arouses me in an entirely new way. I kiss her back just as softly and we make love for the greater part of the evening.

Afterwards, I gaze out the window into the twilight sky from my place in bed. For the first time since the first murder I witnessed, I feel at peace. I hadn't even realized how wound up I was over following the serial killer until now. It all seems so far away, though the Adelphi Theatre is but a few miles from my flat. I know that right now, someone may be getting murdered, and I could have done something to stop it. I stare at the sky, unblinking, until the few visible stars bleed together to form stage lights. My pulse quickens and my muscles itch to move.

Gemma's fingers stroke my chest softly. "You're thinking about it again, aren't you?" she whispers.

"I am," I confess. When she is silent, I fear she is angry. "Gemma, I feel like I must _do _something, like I can make a difference and catch this person."

"That is what Scotland Yard is for, Kartik. So that others do not have to risk their lives trying to stop a madman."

She is right, but at the same time, she is not. "I thought you of all people would understand," I say softly, letting my words cut through her. Her body tenses against mine.

"That is my past. I've no more madmen to catch."

"That does not mean that others do not."

"But it is not your concern," she says pleadingly. "Kartik, for once, we can be normal! We don't need to save the world anymore."

"What has happened to you?" I ask angrily.

Gemma pushes off of me and clutches the sheets to herself. "What do you mean?"

"There was once a time when you wanted to save everyone, and now you do not care to, even when it is easily within your ability."

"That isn't true," she says tearfully. "That isn't true at all."

"Oh, it's not? Then what is?"

She looks at me pleadingly. "I don't want you to get caught up in this and become a victim yourself," she whispers. Tears fall from her emerald eyes as she lowers them to stare helplessly at her hands. Her honesty surprises me, and that coupled with what she said dispels every last bit of my anger.

I take her hands in mine. "Gemma, what good is coming back to life if I cannot _live_?"

"I don't want to lose you again," she chokes. I kiss the tears from her cheeks.

"You won't," I say, pulling her back to me. She settles in comfortably and my skin is warmed again by hers. "Would you honestly let some mere mortal take my life?"

She laughs halfheartedly. "No," she admits. "I'd blast them all the way to the Orient."

I smile into her hair. "That's my Gemma," I murmur. We fall asleep not too soon after. My dreams are as restless as always, chasing a glimmer of blue in the dark only to have it turn into a beaded sapphire costume hugging closely the curves of Gemma's body. My spirits lift upon seeing her, though I sense that something is wrong. She shakes her head wordlessly, and falls into my arms, a dagger plunged cruelly into her back.

I wake with a start, panicked upon feeling the weight of Gemma in my arms. I know that I was only dreaming but still I rest my palm against her back until the steady rhythm of her precious breathing lulls me back to sleep.

We wake at about the same time come morning, our own sleepy shifting rousing each other until half-lidded eye contact is finally made. My limbs feel deliciously heavy, as if I could sink right through the mattress and forever be surrounded by cotton and feathers. It is very warm under our nest of blankets despite our blatant lack of clothing and if by some wild chance I became paralyzed, unable to move from this very spot ever again, I should think I'd be quite content.

Gemma is not so groggy this particular morning. She is restless, moving in a way that suggests self consciousness, like she is afraid to let herself find comfort in bed with me. She lies on her back, her red curls swirling messily on the pillows and her shoulders, concealing the red mark I accidentally inflicted upon her neck the night before. The sheets cover her just so, but they drape in a way that would allow me to still admire her form, if I had the energy to open my eyes past half-mast, that is. She spies me gazing at her hand, the only bit of her I can see in my direct field of vision, and clenches her fingers restlessly.

"I have been thinking," Gemma says.

"Mmm?" I roll over and thread my fingers with hers. No matter what others may think, her skin looks beautiful against mine. Light and dark, each color the more striking when placed against the other.

"I'd like to help you."

"You would?"

She nods. "You were right last night. I've not been myself. I've been letting my fear get the best of me."

"Thank you," I say softly.

"Oh don't thank me," she dismisses with a wave of her hand. "Thank Feli- Miss Worthington."

"Oh? What did she have to do with it?" I ask, my voice muffled by the pillow.

Gemma takes my hand and draws my arm across her collarbones. She nestles in to me. "I had written to her and Miss Bradshaw about your becoming an illusionist. They thought it a marvelous idea, especially Miss Bradshaw, who performs regularly at the Gaiety. She told me to inform you of her connections, if you should ever wish to book a run there. However, it was Miss Worthington who wanted me to become your assistant, though her enthusiasm seemed geared more towards how ridiculous I'd look on stage. They are both glad to hear of your return, by the way."

I smile widely, though I know she cannot see it. "You changed your mind because your friend thought you'd look ridiculous on stage?"

"No! I changed my mind because I do not like how I've settled for a safe and dull life, not that living with you is dull, to be sure. Refusing to help you catch this killer is opposing my life's philosophy. I cannot help change the world if I do nothing about it."

I lift my head from the pillow and kiss her quite firmly. My heart fills with that same aching love for her, and I can't quite seem to kiss her enough. Every time our lips touch, I am left with an intense desire for more. Breathlessly, I lift my face from hers with a sudden thought.

"So why should I be thanking Miss Worthington, if this revelation was purely your own?"

"Because she has invited us to stay with her for a bit." A secretive smile rests comfortably on Gemma's lips.

"She lives in Paris, correct?"

"_Oui_."

"Forgive me, but I do not understand what this has to do with anything."

"Well, Miss Worthington said that if we decided to pursue a career on stage, she knows of a wonderful costumer who would help us." Gemma grins and ruffles my hair. "Seems like you'll get to see me parade around in a revealing little costume after all."

**Okay, I'd like to respond to a few remarks concerning my characterization. Yes, I realize Gemma seems different, but I've purposely made her so. Her reasons for being so submissive and even-tempered will reveal themselves, so just give it some time. Truthfully, I was disappointed with the characterization of Kartik and Gemma in TSFT and I'm seeking to right it. Anyone else notice how Gemma completely used him? And how he took it? This isn't Gemma's story that I'm writing, it's both of theirs, though first, Kartik gets his place in the sun. I just want to point out that I was once a psych major, and I'm well aware of personality and characterization, so anything that seems "odd" is meant to be. **

**With that said, PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Can't WAIT to write Felicity,  
LunaEquus **


	6. The Setup 6

**Thanks so much for the reviews, my lovelies! And thanks to ThreeOranges for beta-ing! Enjoy!**

"Alright, Gemma, you need to slip out of there and around to the back."

Gemma doesn't move.

"Did you hear me? You need to…"

Yes, I heard you!" she snaps. "I'm bloody stuck!"

Collaborating with Gemma on a magic act is not as enjoyable or easy as I thought. Despite her fascination with illusions, she cannot figure out the logic behind them, even when I show her each step and explain them. And when she finally manages to grasp the concept, she has neither the grace nor the patience to execute them. It is a frustrating ordeal indeed. And then there is the problem of the props. As most magician's assistants are small, sprightly things, the cabinets and other various concealing equipment were made rather on the small side. To put it politely, Gemma can't quite fit inside.

"Just try," I say, fighting the urge to laugh. I hold the curtain of the _Palanquin _aside and peer inside at her. The idea of the trick is to wheel out a seemingly empty palanquin, draw the curtains shut, and open them once more to reveal the magician's assistant. While the palanquin first appears to be empty, it was built to include a small hidden compartment that most tiny girls would have trouble fitting into.

"I can't," Gemma whines, struggling to free herself. She finally manages to pop out, stumbling as she does so. "I hate these stupid tricks!"

"Why do you hate them?" A smile tugs incessantly at my lips. Her face flushes a deep red. I realize with regret that this incident has touched on one of her insecurities. "The equipment belongs to Dr. Van Ripple, Gemma. It was probably built to accommodate young boys." It takes a moment for this to sink in. An impish smile curls over Gemma's mouth and she draws her hand as if to keep it from spreading.

"That's terrible," she says, giggling like a schoolgirl that was shown something scandalous. "And probably true."

"I cannot stop myself. "And it is quite obvious that you are _not_built like a young boy…" I raise my eyebrows suggestively.

"No, and it is a good thing that I'm not, else you'd be in big trouble."

I push her up against the side of a cabinet. "Oh, but I'm already in big trouble," I breathe into her ear. Her skin smells like lavender with a faint trace of vanilla. We kiss for a few moments.

"I'd say we're both in big trouble, Kartik," she whispers. I search her eyes and find the answer – we will never have an easy life together, that much is true. I wonder how much longer we can be ignorant about our future, or lack thereof, though it pains me to even think it. Gemma turns my face back to hers, for I had looked off to the side to gather my thoughts. She offers a sympathetic smile. "We can't even perform any of the bigger illusions, that is. I'd say that's trouble."

_Of course, she was speaking of our performance._ "Yes, we must work to change that." I grin and steer her back towards the_Palanquin_. "After you, dear lady," I say with a bow.

She swats playfully at my lowered head. "I cannot fit and I shall not try."

"Then we are doomed."

"No," she says, her eyes glittering with a plan. "I've an idea to take us straight to the top."

Moments later, Gemma settles herself atop a table before me, laying flat on her back. I stare at my hands as they tingle faintly with the magic she has gifted me. I have long known of the existence of such magic, but I've only once experienced it before. It feels much like the sensation your limbs feel once they regain blood, only far more insistent. Unlike simple nerve misfiring, magic demands to be used, and it requires intense concentration to control it, whether this means to use it or ignore it.

"Go on," Gemma prompts. "I trust you."

I take a deep, shaky breath and will the magic to do as I want. It seems to trickle out like a tiny crack in a glass of water. Gemma's body slowly rises off the table. "Hah!" I exclaim in triumph. "It worked!" However, that one moment of accomplishment was enough to act as a distraction. Gemma falls back onto the table with a small yelp. "Are you alright?" I ask, reaching out to help her sit up.

"I'm fine," she says with a small laugh. "No doubt you'll need to practice though."

We work on modifying various illusions with the aid of Gemma's magic for the next few hours. By the time we declare ourselves well-practiced for the day, I feel achy and exhausted from using the magic so much. But if I look tired, then Gemma may as well be comatose, for she can barely keep her eyes open. I touch her cheek to rouse her from the chair she was resting in. "Come, love, let's go home."

She rolls her head sleepily to me. "Home?"

"You know what I mean."

"We still need to find home."

"We shall go looking when we return from Paris," I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leans into me to complete our embrace. We stand there in the dark warehouse, two mismatched things held together with a strong will. A chuckle lights its way through Gemma's chest into my own.

"Do you know what I think?" she asks.

"I don't think I'll ever get into the mind of the enigmatic Gemma Doyle."

"Oh, pish posh!"

"What are you thinking then?"

Gemma lifts her head and gives me a quick kiss. "Home is where you are."

I smile widely and kiss her back. "I agree."

"Oh dear, do excuse me!" A foreign voice suddenly startles Gemma and me. It is Dr. Van Ripple. Gemma and I spring apart, but the magician has already turned to leave.

"Oh don't worry!" Gemma calls after him. "We were just practicing!" Her face is roughly the color of a ripe pomegranate.

The magician slowly turns back. "Practicing?"

"Yes," she says, nodding emphatically. "Kartik has asked me to be his assistant."

Dr. Van Ripple's face lights up. "How marvelous! Such novelty, an Indian prince and an English harem girl. Tickets will sell out just to see it!" I'd normally be mad at his negative remarks toward our race and relationship, but the old magician's mannerisms are so eccentric that I find it hard to take him seriously. His years on stage are evident in his exaggerations and hand movements, though something about him reminds me faintly of that old suitor of Gemma's, that dandy Middleton. They are both men that groom themselves too much.

He turns up a gas lamp in the corner. "Let's see a trick then!" He hangs his hat on a stand in the corner and takes a seat in the armchair in which Gemma had previously nodded off in.

Gemma and I share an exasperated look. We both want nothing more than to leave and tend to each other's aches and pains. Well that is at least what I want to do, though I'm certain she'd not object. "A simple disappearing act?" I suggest.

"Yes," she agrees. She closes her eyes and I can sense that she is drawing forth a bit of magic to aid us, though I can see the pain it causes her on her face. When I take her hand to help her step into one of the cabinets large enough to contain her height, she grips my hand a little harder than usual. Guilt settles uninvited in the depths of my stomach. This was my idea; I pressured her to help me, and she is the one suffering.

We perform the act (or rather, _she _performs it) and Van Ripple is awestruck at my apparent improvement. He immediately starts firing off venues to book and ways to promote us. "We'll be rich, my good lambs!" he says, swooping us into an awkward embrace. "But first! You need a name!"

"A name?" Gemma asks, adjusting her skirts when he releases us.

"Yes, dear lady, a stage name!" Van Ripple grabs me by the shoulders as if presenting me to distant relatives. "Something mysterious, something exotic! A name to strike wonder and longing in the hearts of the audience! Only that sort of name will be fitting for this dear man." He squeezes my shoulders excitedly and I can feel the horror creep into my features.

Gemma coughs, trying hard to hold in the laugh I know is pressing at her throat. I shrug out of the magician's grasp with as much dignity as I can muster. "Yes, well I'll be sure to think of something while on holiday."

Van Ripple's lecherous smile falters. "Holiday?"

"Yes, we are visiting a dear friend in Paris," Gemma says. "We will be fitted for costumes there."

"Ah yes, of course! Costumes complete the illusion! Now, if I may give a few suggestions…"

* * *

"I thought we'd never make it back," Gemma sighs, falling dramatically onto the bed. "I could fall asleep just like this." She closes her eyes and rests her head in her arms. Wordlessly, I lay next to her, enjoying the concentrated warmth of her form against my body. "I haven't used the magic in so long," she mumbles. "I am glad it worked for us." 

_For us._

I trail my fingers over her back softly. "You don't have to do this if it's too much, Gemma," I whisper.

"Mmm, it's alright. My body needs to get used to handling so much magic again. I shall be fine." She struggles to sit up and props herself up on her arms sleepily. "Kartik, could you…" She glances at me guiltily. "help me undress?"

"Of course," I breathe.

It is different, undressing her this way. Before it had always been in a fit of passion, though now my mind is clear. I am able to appreciate her even more as I shed each layer, my normally nimble fingers shaking slightly as I undo each tiny button, each delicate lace. As I pull the pins from her hair, a sigh of relief falls from her lips, and I smile, knowing that I've done my part right.

Like always, Gemma sleeps in her chemise tucked up against me, but tonight she does not fall right asleep, despite her exhaustion. She holds my hand and strokes every finger, seeming to count each one over and over. "What are you doing?" I whisper into her hair.

Her response is delayed. "I still cannot quite believe that you're back. It seems too good to be true."

My muscles flex around her. "Well, perhaps it _is _too good to be true. Perhaps we're on the brink of learning about each other's nasty habits."

Gemma laughs softly. "Kartik, you could be a one-eyed hunchback in disguise and I wouldn't mind. The point is…you're back, and that in itself is a miracle to me."

I sink down and bury my face in between her shoulder blades. I sigh happily, feeling more loved than I've ever felt before. "Do you know what I think is a miracle?"

"That after four years we finally found each other again?"

"No," I lie, though she knew exactly what I was thinking. "That I've managed to keep my hunchback a secret for so long."

"I was on to you," she says, laughing. "I thought I detected something the other night." We share in a hushed fit of laughter. "Oh! Before I forget…I'm spending the next few nights in Belgravia before we go to Paris."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Grandmama thinks that I'm visiting an old school friend in the country. My train arrives back at Paddington tomorrow afternoon." When I'm silent, she seeks to elaborate. "That is the excuse I've been saying all along, that I've been flitting around, a little sightseeing bird of a girl."

"And they believe you?" I ask incredulously. I find it hard to believe that such an ill-planned lie could work on her strait-laced family.

"Grandmama does for the most part. Tom doesn't, but he has no means to prove otherwise. He knows that I'm with you."

"Well, considering he isn't breaking down my door, I'd say he's come a long way."

Gemma's fingers graze my forearm. "Tom knows all you've done for me, Kartik. He may be an idiot, but he can't deny that you're a good man."

I kiss her shoulder. "Things _have _changed, haven't they?"

"For the best, I'd say," she whispers softly. Within moments she is asleep, and I follow soon after.

My dreams are troubling to me, somehow more vivid and vexing than before. It is like when you've had too much to drink and blame odd dreams on your inebriation, though this time it is the magic in my veins, not spirits.

I am in a dark theatre, running backstage as various stage props litter the way, compromising my clear path. I stop at the curtain, my breathing heavy and my skin tingling with the sense that I'm being watched. There is that faint glimmer of blue ahead; I see it before my eyes, everywhere I turn to look, though I'm confused as to what it means. And then I realize…it is exactly how I saw things as a shadow of myself, when I could not make it back to my body four years ago. With that, all the old feelings come back in a rush: the panic and desperation, the confusion and hopelessness. My heart bleeds with the terror that I might never see the light of day again, that I'll never see Gemma again, that I'll never _live _again.

I shake myself awake, knowing in my heart that it was only a dream. Beside me, Gemma sleeps contentedly, a ghost of a smile on her lips. I pull her into my arms again and she whimpers slightly at being disturbed, but then re-settles herself and falls back asleep. _I love her,_ I realize suddenly. I suppose I knew it all along, but I've finally found the emotion behind the words. The phrase has always seemed so empty to me before, something people say when they don't really mean it, just to satisfy others. But no, I understand it now - I love Gemma Doyle. I love her moods, her temper, how she can be a passionate woman one moment, and be full of childlike awe the next. She is my lover and my friend, and my rival and my match. She is everything to me, and I love her.

"Gemma," I whisper, shaking her gently. "Wake up." She grumbles something incoherently in protest. "What was that?" I ask.

"I said, shut it and let me sleep or I'll turn you into a frog."

"I love you," I say, grinning at her foul mood.

"That's nice," she mumbles in her sleep. I squeeze her tight around her waist and when I fall asleep this time, I only dream of her.

**Felicity's in the next chapter! Hmm, anyone think they know what Kartik's dreams mean? Hehe, I'll never tell!**

**Is greedy when it comes to reviews,  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW!!! Or a Frenchman will compromise Kartik's virtue. Hmm... **


	7. The Setup 7

**Many thanks for the reviews so far!!! And thanks to ThreeOranges, the best beta-er ever. Enjoy!**

I am caught in a sense of vertigo as I stand still while the horizon bounces and drifts by me. I concentrate on nothing but my hands gripping the railing, my knees absorbing the shocks when the waves pounds mercilessly against the ship's hull. I am rooted here, afraid to move a muscle for fear of losing the contents of my stomach on the deck.

"Kartik, you don't look very good," Gemma observes, ever-so astutely. "Perhaps you should sit down." She takes my arm and steers me to an empty bench on the deck of the steamship. Though the English Channel is far smaller than an ocean, it is by no means calmer. My stomach churns dangerously and I let out a pathetic groan. Gemma pats my arm sympathetically. "And to think you wanted to be a sailor…"

The land finds me far more agreeable. In fact, when we set foot onto the port at Calais, I feel I could sink to my knees and kiss the ground. I nearly consider doing it to shock Gemma, and the thought brings a naughty smile to my face.

Gemma eyes me suspiciously. "What are you thinking about?"

"I shall never travel by water again."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh? How do you expect to get home then?"

I swing myself around a lamppost, earning myself a few patronizing glares from the locals. "I shall become a Frenchman. They seem like very hospitable people, the French."

"_Oui. _Eels sont trays moose."

I burst out laughing. "Gemma, your French is dreadful!" She smiles, looking very proud of herself. "What were you trying to say?"

She screws up her face in concentration. "Eel sont tray moo," she says, only marginally more eloquently.

"_Ils sont très mous_? They are very soft?"

Gemma grins. "Well, I meant to say _nice_, but soft actually describes them better, don't you think?"

"Quite so."

She readjusts her hat, which casts an attractive shadow over her face, and looks off to a point behind me. "Miss Worthington said she'd arrange a carriage to take us to the train station," she says, her lovely eyes searching the bustling port. "I've no idea how to tell which one is ours – oh! There it is!"

"How can you tell?" I ask, hurrying after her.

"The driver is holding a card with my name on it."

"Oh. Clever."

It is a long train ride from Calais to Paris, but thankfully we have the car to ourselves. I am grateful to be alone with Gemma after three days of not seeing her. We draw the curtains of the car's door and kiss each other for awhile, but the lack of true privacy from whoever may enter is a distraction, so we content ourselves with holding hands and exchanging small talk to keep our desires at bay.

"You said Miss Worthington knows of a costumer that will outfit us?"

"Yes, her significant other runs a costume shop."

"Oh? Has he outfitted other magicians before?"

Gemma's peaceful smile disappears. "He?"

"Yes, Miss Worthington's significant other," I say patiently. I sometimes wonder about Gemma's attention span.

A wicked smile spreads across her pretty mouth. "There have never been any significant males in Felicity Worthington's life, Kartik. Nor will there ever be."

My jaw drops in shock. "Do you mean…she…with another woman?"

"Yes. Her lover's name is Claire. That is another thing; they preferred to be called by their Christian names. Felicity is no longer Miss Worthington. We shall be staying with them. In the bohemian district."

"Fair enough," I say, still trying to get my head around Miss Worthing – _Felicity's_ sexuality. Really, I cannot judge, especially as my manager is somewhat of a degenerate, however, something about this knowledge does not sit well with me. I think of her behavior around Gemma, and cannot help but wonder… "She won't try to steal you away from me, will she?"

"Oh, Kartik," she chides. "Do you fall in love with every woman_you _come across?"

"No, but…"

"Then why would Felicity?"

"I understand your point, but you are not just any other woman to her."

"That is true," Gemma agrees, nodding thoughtfully. "I am her_friend_." She strokes my jaw. "Things are not that way between us, nor will they ever be." She kisses me slowly. "Though, I must reveal she _was _myfirst kiss."

I pull away sharply. "What?!"

Gemma laughs and tells me a tale of four girls and a bottle of whiskey, an apple and a cave. She speaks glossy-eyed, as if caught up in the memory, saying each word with the passion and precision of a writer. Perhaps someday I shall convince her to write down her incredible tale.

She finishes her recollection with a question that catches me off guard. "What were your honest thoughts of me at first, Kartik?"

I smile nervously. "You're not serious, are you? I…can't remember."

Her eyes hold me captive now; there is no getting out of this one. "Go on, Kartik. Tell me."

"I thought you were like every other petulant brat of an English girl. I thought you were weak, insufferable, and even a bit stupid, not to mention I blamed you for my brother's death." I say this all very fast, and it hits Gemma like a whip. "I am sorry," I say. "I obviously haven't felt that way for a long time."

She blushes. "When did you start feeling differently?"

"When you started to fight back. I liked that you were feisty. I still do." I cup her chin and bring her face to mine. "And of course I've always thought you were beautiful." It is true. At first glance a casual observer may not catch it, but Gemma has a haunting sort of beauty, the sort that stays with you and permeates your every thought. She is purely stunning.

"I bet you never thought back then that you'd end up with me."

I laugh. "I quickly learned that nothing could ever be expected with you. You were full of surprises, my dear."

Gemma gives me a quick kiss. "I still might be." She casts me a flirtatious smile and turns her attention to the countryside speeding by outside the window, leaving me to wonder what she might have planned.

It is very late when we finally arrive in Paris and it is difficult to secure a cab. The driver we eventually find is a lazy man, with lazy horses, though I do not blame the poor beasts for their exhaustion. Heavy, plodding footfalls bring us slowly closer to our destination in Montmartre, at the house presumably shared by Felicity, whose last name apparently no longer exists, and Claire the costumer. When we arrive, I tip the driver generously and offer each of the horses a grateful pat, before unloading our suitcases. The driver offers to bring them to the door for us, but I decline, and he takes his horses to a nearby inn to finally rest.

But apparently, our night is just beginning.

"_Gemma_!" With a crash, the front door opens and a small blonde woman dashes out and sweeps Gemma into a tight embrace. "Gemma Doyle, you are gorgeous!" she exclaims, kissing both of my Gemma's cheeks. Though I know I shouldn't, jealousy stirs in my stomach like a waking snake, testing the air for danger with its slithering tongue.

"Fee! It's so good to see you!" Gemma is kissing Felicity back on both cheeks. Had I not known the odd habits of the French (and the young English girls that love such novelty), I'd be quite worried. "Your trousers look wonderful, Fee. You are a vision." Gemma's cheeks are flushed with happiness and her smile is true. I frown. The snake in my belly shakes its rattle.

Felicity turns to me, a large smile plastered on her face. "Kartik! How nice that you're alive!" I find this ironic, as she once tried to kill me.

"Nice to see you again, Miss Wo – Felicity." We shake hands as if gentlemen, though with her trousers and cunning mind, she easily could pass as one.

"Well!" Felicity explains, grasping Gemma's hands. "Please come in. We'll get you settled, open a bottle of wine, and have a lovely time. There is someone I want you to meet." She nods towards the house, and I notice a woman with dark, curly hair hovering in the doorway in an odd cut of dress. It isn't until we start up the stairs that I notice she isn't wearing a dress at all, but rather a robe fashioned after the kimonos from Japan. Gemma looks at me with wide eyes, conveying her thoughts in a way that only I can understand. I raise my eyebrows in return.

Felicity notices our shocked expressions. "You'll quickly notice that things are far more…_relaxed_ in this district, loves. Claire, darling! My friends," she says, gesturing to us. I set our suitcases on the polished wood floor of the front hall. "This is Gemma, one of my dearest friends from Spence."

"I've heard _so much _about you," Claire gushes warmly. Her voice is soft and breezy, the sort of voice you'd expect an angel or a faerie to have.

Felicity pushes me forward with more strength than I'd have imagined someone of her diminutive size to have. "And this is Kartik, Gemma's _dearest_ friend."

Claire smiles widely. "Oh, lovely!Are you from India?"

"Yes, I was born in Bombay."

"_Magnifique! _My sister and her husband just returned from a trip there. They brought back a little _singe_ to keep as a pet. They named him Pamplemousse!" She laughs, and for a moment I fear I shall dread my stay with such a bizarrewoman. But then she says, "What a _stupid _name for a monkey!" and my dread dispels.

Felicity ushers us from the hall and uncorks a bottle of wine. Pleasantries are entertained while the wine flows free and the clock ticks on, until eventually the conversation turns to the subject of illusionism.

"What made you decide to be a magician, Kartik?" Felicity asks, draping her arm over Claire's thin shoulders. I glance at Gemma sitting next to me and wonder if I should try a move so bold on her. She catches me looking and smiles languidly, her nerves relaxed by the seemingly endless supply of wine. "I was fortunate enough to have met Doctor Theodore Van Ripple after his farewell performance." I pause as Gemma takes my hand in hers and draws my arm over her shoulders, pressing herself close up against me as she does so. I can hear the smile in my voice as I continue speaking. "Things just happened to fall into place after that."

Felicity and Claire smile at us from their close embrace on the settee across from us. Perhaps it is the wine, but I begin to feel warmth in my heart, happy for the person in my arms and grateful that I can share it with the company of others.

"Tomorrow we will discuss your costumes and I will take measurements, yes?" Claire asks.

"That would be loverly," Gemma slurs. A noise that sounds something like a hiccup and a giggle escapes her lips.

"Claire is very _talented_," Felicity demurs, making me think she speaks not only of her lover's skills with a needle. "Give her a week and you will have the finest costumes ever seen on stage."

"Oh stop it, _Fée,_" Claire chides, swatting at her playfully. "It is cake, making costumes."

"Ohh, cake," Gemma whispers, gripping my shirt.

"What?" I murmur to her.

She turns her glassy eyes to me, a bemused expression vaguely present on her face. "I really want some."

"Do you now?" I ask teasingly. It is clear she drank too much wine. "Well, I cannot give you cake, but I can offer you something just as sweet."

"Mmm," she expresses somewhat urgently. Her tongue slips out to wet her lips and I nearly lose my mind with longing. It has been days since I've had the privilege to tread the marble floors of her temple, and I've many things to pray for.

"It's getting late," I announce, tearing my eyes reluctantly from Gemma's mouth to address our hostesses. They had been caught up in their own little world, and it is clear they are both quite ready to retire as well.

Felicity shows us to her room, which she has given up for us. It is decorated to resemble a room in a Moroccan palace, with jeweled silk pillows and brightly colored scarves cascading from the canopy above the bed. Even the bed sheets appear to be a deep purple silk. "Extra blankets are in the wardrobe and the privy's down the hall. Don't be too loud," she says with a wink.

"Same to you," Gemma calls after her as Felicity offers us one more smile and shuts the door behind her. "Oh, Kartik," Gemma says, falling against me. I wonder if she's feeling particularly affectionate or if she cannot stand up properly for herself. I don't really care. I wrap my arm tightly around her waist and pull her to me.

"Gemma...you...are so…" _Alluring. Sensual. Delicious. _My words fail me yet again, for I cannot pull my lips from hers this time. I sink deeper into her kiss, smoothing my hands over the back of her dress, unbuttoning what I can. She tugs my shirt free and slides her hands underneath, scratching me lightly with her fingernails. It drives me mad and I move my lips to her throat, finally freeing her completely of her dress. Now I only have the other four other layers to contend with.

"I'm so what?" she murmurs, slipping her fingers into my hair. She giggles and I swear I can taste it on her skin. "Drunk is what I am." I mumble in agreement. She shrugs me off of her and goes about undressing herself, far faster than I could have, though my time has much improved. I frown as she rummages through her suitcase, and when she pulls her nightgown over her head, my heart sinks.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice strangled with mild panic.

Gemma falls onto the bed and shimmies under the blankets. "Going to bed," she replies, yawning. "Aren't you coming?"

I pause for a bit, momentarily confused. Disappointment finally registers clearly enough for the blood to return to my head, and I slip into bed next to her. "So that's it then?"

She rests her head on my chest, her eyes closed. "I'm too tired for that tonight, Kartik," she mumbles.

Her breasts are pressed against my chest, the thin white cotton of her nightgown the only thing separating us. She may not be in the mood, but I certainly am. "Gemma, please?"

She grunts and I take that to be a _no_.

"I want you, and I am quite prepared to beg."

She is unresponsive this time, breathing softly in sleep. I roll my eyes heavenward, towards the canopy of imported silk, and pray that she might wake up and change her mind. I've no such luck, so I close my eyes and wait impatiently until sleep finally envelops me with darkness and dreams.

**If any of you watch Project Runway, the designer Jillian is actually who I picture as Claire. I don't know why, but that's how it came out, right down to the voice. I know you all love Felicity, so you'll definitely see more of her.**

**Hmm, Gemma's French strongly resembles my own...**

**I have patrol tomorrow night! Woo hoo!,  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW!!! Or...um, Kartik STILL won't get any. Ha HA. And that would stink, considering Felicity will take Gemma shopping for naughty lingerie. Possibly. So, review, and Kartik will get his own private burlesque show! Don't review, and a Frenchman of questionable sexuality will be the one to deliver the striptease instead of Gemma. So, review. I think I made my point!**


	8. The Setup 8

**Thanks for the reviews! And thanks to ThreeOranges for beta-ing. Enjoy!**

I wake long before Gemma, squinting around a room that is unfamiliar to me. Though it is still dark, the little bit of light that peeks through the thickly embroidered drapes catches the many tiny mirrored surfaces inlaid in the rich décor. The sight of the silk scarves and faceted glass lanterns bring me back to my senses. I am in Montmartre, in Felicity's Moroccan fantasy of a bedroom. Gemma is sleeping soundly beside me, and will probably sleep for several more hours thanks to the potent red wine served last night. I lean back into the pillows for want of more sleep, but the silk is cold against my bare shoulders and I am restless. This complete change of scenery, of life in general, has happened seemingly in the blink of an eye. It is as if I have been eating my food too quickly, without stopping to let the flavors seep into my tongue. I want to set down my fork and reflect, to make sense of everything.

Dressing quietly, I leave the room without rousing Gemma from her sleep. It is better that way, for if she asked me what I was doing, I'd honestly have no idea. My legs carry me from the house and into the unknown city. The people of Montmartre are waking for the day, coming out of their homes with sleepy but determined faces. Some walk quickly, eager to do their errands and return home. They carry fresh bread and boxes of pastries, carefully to keep inquiring birds from their goods. Others, like me, wander aimlessly, watching the world go by. One man feeds pigeons. They swarm around him, some even perch on him, proving that anyone can be trusted if they have something to give.

I find myself near the Basilica of the Sacré Coeur, in the Place du Tertre. Dozens of artists set up easels with care, some of them turning circles until they find a suitable view to paint. They call to each other amiably, greeting one another as friends. I feel a stab of jealousy. This is their life; they can find happiness in capturing the right shade of blue in the sky, content just to paint and be with their kindred spirits. They have a place, a calling. I wonder if I will ever have what they do, a steady life, a home. No flitting around from place to place, trying to please all and find a purpose, something to occupy your mind. I should like to have such a life, though it is a far cry from what I have now. I cannot picture myself behind an easel, scrutinizing the faces of strangers for art, but I'd like to see myself doing something like that. It is not the painting that is done that captures me, but the happy, peaceful way the artists go about it. To be happy and peaceful… I should like that very much.

"You are a very good model for an artist, you know," a foreign voice says in French, startling me.

I turn to find a man who seems to be only a few years my senior gazing at me with a sketchpad in hand. "I'm sorry?" I ask, familiar enough with the language to hold informal conversations.

"It is true. You are very still and have beautiful bone structure." That he says this earnestly with a straight face troubles me. I feel a blush creep up my neck and I fight to dispel it, lest he think me flattered by his words. The stranger's eyes remind me strongly of Dr. Van Ripple's, not in form but in expression, like they are trying hard to burn through my clothing to see my naked skin. I suppose I've looked at Gemma with such eyes many times before, but I do not welcome having them used on me by other men.

"Thank you," I say stiffly.

"Would you ever considering posing for me? I am working on a project involving-"

"Oh dear, I've just realized the time. Good day to you!" I spring from the bench and walk swiftly towards Felicity's house, shaking off the sense that I've been the subject of a pass by another man.

Gemma is just waking as I re-enter the bedroom and shut the door with a relieved sigh. "Good morning," I greet her, taking my shoes off. "You won't believe what just happened to me." As I lean over to kiss her, I noticed fresh trails of tears on her cheeks, which she quickly swipes at with the back of her hands. "Gemma? What is it?"

"It is nothing," she says, her voice quavering despite her attempt at a smile. I lay beside her, pulling her to me. She rests her head against my shoulder. "I just…sometimes, when I wake up and you're not beside me, I think it was all a happy dream, that I must again face the day without you."

"Why would you think that?"

"You've no idea how many mornings I have woken up to having just dreamt that you were with me again. For just a few moments, I'd be happy, ecstatic even, but then reality would dawn on me. It was just a dream, and you weren't really there." Her voice is laced with tears and it breaks my heart. Why did I have to listen to Mrs. Nightwing? I could have saved Gemma so much pain if I'd just gone to America to find her.

"You've nothing to worry about, Gemma. I've been alive all that time."

"I know," she says quietly. "But it stills hurts."

I pinch her arm.

"Ouch!" she cries, her eyes hardening into emeralds. "What was that for?"

"See? You're not dreaming. I am here."

"Yes, well you didn't need to pinch me so hard."

"Fine then," I relent, saving myself from a petty argument. "I am sorry for that."

"I accept your apology."

We are still for awhile, holding each other despite the tension built up between us. Though I love Gemma, having a relationship with her is like training a young horse. Sometimes she is docile and perfectly lovely, but other times she is enraged, averse to bending to anyone else's will. I've learned to back down at times and just let her get the bucks out of her system.

Suddenly, Gemma softens into me, the indication that she's let down her walls once more. "I don't like it," she whispers.

"Don't like what?" I ask, stroking her hair.

"Waking up without you next to me." Her eyes look to mine quickly and flit away again. I bend my neck to press my lips against hers.

"Mmm, well we can work on that." I push Gemma onto her back and press on top, sandwiching her between myself and the soft mattress. She accepts me readily, kissing me firmly and arching her body into mine. If only she'd responded this way last night, I'd have had a much better morning.

"Kartik!" she gasps softly, a telltale sign of what she wants – what I wanted last night, but will take at any time of the day really.

"Now?" I ask, for the morning is becoming late, and we are guests.

"Please!"

"Alright then." I cannot say no, especially as my body has already begun to say yes for me. And to say no would be to lie, and lying has not exactly been good for our relationship.

Things are just getting to an interesting point when I hear something that makes my blood run cold, and my desire instantly diminishes.

"Gemma darling! Are you awake?"

"Oh no! It's Fee!" Gemma whispers, squirming underneath me to get free.

"I can hear that," I grumble irritably, wiping my mouth with the back of one hand and straightening my collar with the other.

"I'm just getting dressed, Fee!" Gemma calls.

"Breakfast is in the kitchen!" Felicity sings happily, her footsteps retreating back down the hall. Gemma slips behind the dressing screen, emerging only to ask for assistance with her corset.

"So where were you this morning, Kartik?" she asks, pinning up her hair. I tell her about my early morning excursion into the heart of Montmartre, leaving out the bit of soul-searching I did. That is for another time. She watches me with a bemused expression when I mention the strange encounter with the artist.

"He wanted me to pose for him, Gemma," I say bluntly from my perch on the edge of the bed.

"Well you _do _have nice bone structure…" she remarks with a smirk.

"But other men need not notice that!"

Gemma sighs and plants a kiss on my forehead. "And to think you wanted to be a sailor…"

The rest of the day is pleasant enough. The four of us spend a few hours in Claire's costume shop, a little niche filled with bolts of fabric and mannequins fearlessly modeling completed works. There is a pirate, an exotic dancer, a courtesan, and a faerie among others. On the walls hang a variety of handmade masks, from a peacock to a horse to a harlequin. Dozens of props fill the corners. Everything is exquisitely made.

"Ohh," Gemma breathes, her eyes wide as she takes everything in. "It's all so beautiful!"

"You are far too kind," Claire says in that breathy voice of hers. "Let's get your measurements, _oui_?"

Each of us have a turn in the back room as Claire measures us in every possible place. There is a point where I think I should feel violated, but remember that she does not like men. Paris seems a bizarre place so far, with men that fancy men and women that don't, though London is really no different. People are just far more accepting in this district, and more likely to advertise their differences I suppose. I wonder if Gemma and I could ever fit in here, among the strange bohemians.

When Gemma returns from the back room, she has a wicked smile on her face. "Fee is taking me shopping, Kartik. I'm afraid you'll have to negotiate the costumes by yourself instead."

I take her hands in mine. "But I thought you wanted to have a say," I murmur, my heart sinking.

She kisses me full on the lips. "I trust your judgment."

"I shall have you be an old crone then!" I call after her.

She spins around. "Don't let him, Claire!"

"I won't!" Claire laughs. A tiny bell tinkles near the door and they are gone, leaving Claire and me alone. "Of course you'd rather die than let her play an old crone, I'm sure," she says with a radiant smile. "Gemma is your princess, is she not?"

"Something like that," I say with a sigh. "Forgive me, I'm new to the world of stage acts and a bit overwhelmed. I had been hoping Gemma would have taken the reins for this little detail."

"Little! The costume makes the magician! It is nearly the most important part of stage magic!"

"Yes, I'm afraid that's why I am so intimidated by it."

Claire laughs again and bids me to sit on a colorful pouf of a chair. "Then you should be glad to know that I am somewhat of an expert in such matters. I've outfitted many actors and magicians, though certainly no one as exotic as you."

"Well, my manager suggested I play off my image. Exploit it, if you will."

She detects the bitterness in my tone. "I don't think it's exploiting so much as being true to yourself. Tell me, what would be worse, acting the Indian prince or trying to pass as English?"

She does have a point. "I suppose I'm just uncomfortable with pretending to be someone I am not."

"But that is the fun of it! If you're to be an illusionist, you cannot be afraid of illusion. You'll never be successful if you fail to realize that."

"Illusions have never served me well in the past."

"Then you're pursuing the wrong career." I look up with surprise.

Claire smiles kindly. "I understand where you are coming from, Kartik. You've spent years trying to accept who you are and who you love. I'm sure it was very hard, coming to terms with your race in relation to hers, correct?"

"Yes," I say incredulously.

"I have gone through the same thing. Realizing that I loved women instead of men terrified me. I hated myself. I tried to change myself into something that I wasn't. My life was an illusion until I just accepted it. I am happy where I am now that I am true to myself, and so are you. But you are afraid to step outside of yourself, even if just for an hour or two. Am I right?"

I'm floored. Everything out of her mouth makes perfect sense. It's as if she knows my heart exactly, and I love her a little for it. She pats my hand. "As long as you acknowledge the illusion, it cannot harm you. It isn't until you start to believe in it that you've lost yourself."

I am silent while she rummages through a catalog of costume pictures. For the first time since Amar died, I feel kinship to another. "Do you read minds?" I ask.

"Only on Thursdays," she quips.

I laugh. "Thank you," I say quietly.

She nods and smiles. "Let's pick out some costumes, hm?"

We peruse over the glossy pages of costumes, picking out a few corresponding outfits for Gemma and me. There is the traditional outfit of a top hat and tails, accompanied by a beaded lace ensemble of pink and purple for Gemma. An Indian prince and a harem girl were the next obvious choices. There are even two costumes of an Egyptian theme, so daring that they will have to be kept for when we (hopefully) establish ourselves with the more popular venues.

The rest of the time spent waiting for Gemma and Felicity to return are spent talking about…well, Gemma and Felicity. I learn that Claire and Felicity met at a salon discussing women's suffrage. Claire took note of Felicity's trousers and thought them to be a costume, and inquired where she was performing. She blushes when she speaks of Felicity's response to that inquiry, telling me only that Felicity was a marvelous actress and that the performance was _trés magnifique. _

When Claire asks about how I met Gemma, I'm frozen with the lie caught between my teeth. "Let's just day that it is a very long story, and not entirely believable," I say.

She smiles placidly. "If it involves a story about four girls and a magical world, then you may want to reconsider that assessment." So I tell her. And she listens.

When Gemma and Felicity return, I am happy. I feel at peace with our hostesses, realizing finally that they've no sights on Gemma, for they are blind to anyone but each other. Sexual preference has no effect on promiscuity, and I can't believe I ever thought otherwise. The four of us have dinner at the famous Moulin de la Galette. I eat slowly, savoring the odd flavor of today's experience. Perhaps I can find a place to settle here after all.

Throughout dinner, Gemma is strangely abrupt, eating quickly and fidgeting impatiently like a child. Felicity throws me a knowing look every time Gemma's questionable excitement shakes the table. The girls titter to each other, as if they all know some big secret and I don't, though really, that is exactly how it is.

"So what was all that about?" I ask Gemma once we have returned to the bedroom for the night. She giggles and shimmies her hips in response. I'm thoroughly interested now. "What?" I ask.

"Felicity took me shopping."

"Yes, and what of it?"

Another giggle. "Take your clothes off," she orders. "And lie on the bed."

I'm only to happy to oblige, though I'm still in the dark as to what her motives are. "Gemma?" She unties the curtains at each of the bedposts, enclosing me in a cave of silk and pillows. "What are you up to?"

A soft _click_ brings forth a light source that catches her silhouette against the gossamer curtains. I finally realize that I'm to be treated to my own private burlesque show. She undresses slowly, twisting her body in a silent, sinuous dance that resounds loudly within my body. "Gemma," I say urgently. Gemma parts the curtains shyly, just enough to admit her head. "Well come in," I say. She creeps in slowly, dressed in the most incredible underclothes I've ever seen. Sheer black lace cups her breasts, hugs her curves, covers her yet doesn't, leaving much to be imagined, though nearly everything is visible.

"Do you like it?" she asks, crawling on top of me. "Fee brought me to this lovely little shop…"

Letting my hands rest on the supple swells of her hips, I only have one thought – I love Paris and its wonderful little shops. "_Trés magnifique_," I breathe.

Gemma bites her lip and smiles. "Well then." She reaches to a point somewhere over my head, thrusting her bosom into my face. I nip playfully at the lace there and reach to relieve her of it, but she comes back to her sitting position with a silk scarf in her hands. I reach for her breasts but she swats my hands away, running her own over the muscles in my arms.

"What is the scarf for?" I mumble as Gemma stretches my arms over my head and kisses me. She sits up again, straddling my stomach, and smiles triumphantly. She's tied my wrists to the headboard. "What's this?" I ask, fighting the instinctive urge to panic as I struggle against my bindings. "Gemma?" My voice betrays me.

"Shh," she whispers, placing a finger against my lips. "You shall enjoy this."

And I do. Immensely.

**Ooh sex. Woah. **

**No, Kartik isn't falling in love with Claire, but he's allowed to be a little curious.**

**I was on patrol tonight and the horses spooked. To make a long story short, I fell off my horse at a gallop and hit my head on the pavement, and spent 3 hours in the hospital to find out I have a mild concussion. Refer to my LJ for the whole story.**

**With that said, I am updating with a concussion. I think that deserves very long reviews telling me concrit for my story. xD**

**Gots a boo-boo,  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW!!! **


	9. The Setup 9

**Woo! Thanks for all the reviews and well wishes about my injury! I am feeling fine now, and they figured out that the reason the horses freaked and bolted was because the ground was hot with a live current from a lamppost, and they got zapped because of their metal shoes. Poor babies! Anyway, thanks to ThreeOranges as well for being an awesome beta-reader! Enjoy!**

"_Someone _looks happy," Felicity remarks when Gemma finally breezes into the kitchen, still in her dressing gown. All of the girls are still in various stages of undress from the night before; I alone am uncomfortable enough to be fully dressed at all times. I offer Gemma a cup of tea and she kisses my temple in return.

"I believe that is called _afterglow_, no?" Claire says nonchalantly, reading from a newspaper and nibbling at a croissant. I grin sheepishly in response, feeling quite giddy. Last night not only proved to be interesting, but incredibly satisfying in more ways than one. It was so different from how we usually make love; it felt new and exciting to be brought to the fray of uncertainty and desire without any control of my own, like an overeager virgin that must be taught what to do. Yes, that's it – it was like losing my virginity again, to a girl I did not quite know. Under the shroud of colored silk, Gemma and I became different people, and in doing so we found parts of each other we'd never known before. It was quite spiritual, really, and I've never felt closer to her. I feel as if all I need to do is look in her eyes to know exactly what she is thinking.

"So, _mes amis_, shall we play little tourists today? Claire will be working on your costumes, so I thought it best to show you around." Felicity fingers a lock of her white-blonde hair thoughtfully. "We can visit the Place du Tertre and have charcoal portraits done." Gemma giggles into her hand as I feel my eyes grow wide. Felicity looks between us in mild bemusement. "What? What is it?"

"I've already been there," I say stiffly, shooting Gemma a warning glance so she doesn't reveal any more.

"But Gemma hasn't," Felicity challenges. "I'm sure she'd enjoy it."

Gemma dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. "That's alright. I don't want to risk losing Kartik to an amorous artist." She turns to me. "Did he ever say his name?"

My face grows hot as I feel three pairs of eyes burning into me.

"_His_ name?" Felicity asks.

"Oh dear," Claire says, knitting her dark brows together.

"Thank you, Gemma," I clip through clenched teeth.

"Dear Kartik," Felicity says in faux sympathy. "We live among_bohemians_, dear. What did you expect?"

"Not all bohemians are degenerates, _Fée,_" Claire says softly.

"I know, but many are. That is why I came here. To be among my own kind."

"How can you say that we're your own kind if you treat us like a spectacle to be seen on holiday?"

I cannot quite say what happens, but something odd passes between our hostesses, something tense and uncomfortable. I avert my eyes from them, though neither of them have done anything, and look to Gemma instead. She meets my gaze and I immediately see that she is worried.

"Why don't we visit the Louvre?" Gemma suggests, but she goes unheard.

"Are you implying that I don't belong here?" Felicity's voice is sharp enough to cut glass. Claire shoots something back in rapid French. They lunge at each other with the passion of animals in heat, though their fire is fueled by anger, not love. Gemma and I slip out of the kitchen unnoticed, and steal back upstairs to the bedroom.

I'm quite at a loss for words. I have seen wraiths and gorgons and my own possessed brother reaping souls, but the sight of two women (and lovers) fighting without any regards to the audience baffles me. I'm not sure if I should be sympathetic or offended. There is a crash downstairs, followed closely by presumably the high-pitched screams of Claire, who seems to be true to her nationality as far as fighting goes. (That is to say she is quite whiney and shrill.) I jump at the sound and wince as my eardrums throb with her voice, and I look at Gemma for some indication of whether or not this is normal behavior for ladies. Gemma looks at me with the wide-eyed look of a doe…and a croissant hanging from her mouth. That is it for me. I collapse on the bed in a fit of laughter just as Gemma does, though her hysterics are somewhat muffled by pastry. We hide out for the rest of the fight on the floor near the window above the kitchen, eavesdropping like children.

"What did she say?" Gemma whispers urgently, pressing into me.

"She said, 'Well _you _were the one looking at the dancer with lust in your eyes!'" I raise my eyebrows at the scandalized look on Gemma's face. "When do you think they'll stop?"

"Possibly never. Felicity is not one to let things go."

"I figured."

We are relieved from our hiding about twenty minutes later, with the slamming of the front door signifying someone's departure. Someone stomps up the stairs and up to our door. "Claire has gone to her shop," Felicity announces huffily. "And I am in want of a long bath."

"Alright," Gemma says awkwardly. She doesn't move until Felicity departs, and then she whimpers, pursing her lips tightly together. Another door slams and Gemma collapses in on herself, laughing until tears stream down the smooth planes of her cheeks.

"What is it now?" I ask, trying to pin her down. She struggles underneath me and her dressing gown comes partially undone, revealing the soft white mounds of her breasts. I chuckle to myself and bend my neck down to kiss them.

"Oh Kartik, _please_," Gemma admonishes, swatting at my head. "The door is open!"

"Mmm, delicious," I murmur, ignoring her.

"I'll tie you up again and go find that artist if you don't get off me!" she shrieks.

"Displeasure noted," I say, rolling off of her.

We spend the day together as tourists, taking a leisurely carriage ride to the Louvre, where we peruse art by the Old Masters and beyond. I find myself gazing at each piece longer than normal, noting the precise brush strokes and trying to place myself in the artist's mind. _Why did he use that color there? When did he decide that abstract was better than literal?_ For me, each painting is a different revelation, a new feeling within me I've long lost. It is incredible how just a combination of brush strokes and color can have so much power to rouse such emotions within a man, and yet I am held transfixed for a few long moments before Gemma's gentle pressure on my arm brings me back to reality. It is nothing but illusion which sparks these emotions, yet they feel so real.

It is late when we finally return to Felicity's house. We pause outside the door and lean against the porch railing, immersed in shadow and silence. Gemma's hand is warm in mine, a reassurance that she is alive and with me. I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss the smooth skin there, and pull her into my arms. She strokes my jaw and leans into me, her eyes glittering in the dark. We are stalling and know so without speaking; neither of us want to brave the possibility of Claire and Felicity still fighting.

"Come," she says softly, tugging on my hand. The heavy wooden door creaks as Gemma turns the glass doorknob and pushes inside. Music and mixed voices floods out through the door as we walk inside. Felicity greets us with the force of a charging bull.

"Gemma, Kartik," she says breathlessly. "Where have you been?"

Gemma ignores the question. "What is going on?"

"We've thrown a party! To properly welcome you to bohemian life." Felicity grins widely and crookedly; it is obvious she has had too much to drink. "Come!" she exclaims, grabbing ours hands. "Let's get you properly drunk."

What happened next was such a liquor-drenched blur that I can only recall bits of it. Felicity was treating us to absinthe in the fainting room and telling us (with a rather forced smile) how she and Claire had made up. Gemma was hesitant to try the green liquor, but relented after Felicity prodded her a bit. I drank my fair share too, until the drink no longer burned my stomach, but rather tingled and glittered within me. The Green Fairy was fighting her way out. I somehow found myself in the parlor, amidst a roomful of people I did not know. Though normally such a thing would bother me, I was free of all anxiety. That is, until I saw Claire.

She was in an armchair across the room, wedged between two brunettes, her dark curls falling over her face as she deeply kissed another girl, a girl who was not Felicity. I am normally not such a voyeur, but I couldn't tear my eyes from the way Claire expertly kissed the brunette, rolling her pink tongue across the other's bottom lip, groping her breasts through the thin silk of her dress. I was transfixed, curious, filled with longing for a woman that was not Gemma.

I closed my eyes against the soft amber-colored light of the room, trying to block out my alien desires, yet also welcoming the thrilling, naughty feeling I felt. I wondered what it'd be like to kiss Claire, to be kissed _by _her. The Green Fairy was whispering delicious notions in my ear. _Kiss her, you'll enjoy it. Kiss her…Gemma won't find out._ Gemma… I hadn't seen her for…how long had it been? What time was it?

_You know nothing, _I told myself. _You are not yourself. You don't really want Claire._ My legs felt like the wobbly new limbs of a newborn foal as they carried me to God knows where. I can only recall my fruitless search for Gemma, or anyone who could point me to her.

"Kartik!" I spun around at the sound of my name, tumbling against the wall as I lost my balance. I felt a figure embrace me as I struggled to right my vision into something that wasn't dancing doorways and flying _fleur-de-lis_. "Kartik, _mon cher, _I cannot do this anymore."

It was Claire, and she was crying. "Do what?" I asked, though my voice did not actually sound like my own.

"My _Fée_ doesn't love me! I can't be with her anymore!"

"That isn't true…" I was increasingly aware of her closeness, and felt hot with discomfort, but not desire. My body's reaction surprised me – even reassured me, to a degree.

"It is true! She doesn't understand me!" She broke down into a fit of sobs for a moment. "But you," she said, sniffling. "You do. You understand me, don't you?"

"I suppose…"

"Of course you do." Claire wiped her tears and gazed at me sadly. Her lips were swollen and pink with kissing and crying. They reminded me vaguely of my earlier fantasy. "Why can't I fall in love with you instead?"

"Because I am a man?"

Before I could react, her lips were upon mine with a near crushing force. The kiss stunned me so much that for a moment, I was frozen, but then I pushed her away, feeling cheap and somehow disgusted. The kiss I thought I wanted was all wrong for me – too forceful, too wet, too…not Gemma. Gemma's kisses were always so perfect and varied just as I liked them to be.

Claire burst into tears again. "I cannot even love _you_! I cannot love _anyone_!"

The unwanted kiss shocked the Green Fairy into submission. My head cleared just a bit. "You love Felicity," I said confidently. "And she loves you. You only had a fight." She sniffed in response. "Go find her," I ordered. "And where is Gemma?"

"I'm right here." Gemma stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips set in a tight line. "Claire, Fee is looking for you," she said coldly. "And _you_." She turned to me with burning wrath in her eyes. "I can't even…What did you…Why?"

"She kissed me," I explained. "I didn't want it to happen."

"But you allowed it to."

"Gemma, I'm _drunk_. The wallpaper is flying and that lamp over there looks like a cat."

"That _is_ a cat."

"Why are you so sober? You drank as much as I did."

Gemma's emerald eyes pierce through me, shooting down the Green Fairy once and for all. "I am wise to absinthe. I shall deal with you later. Let's get you to bed."

When I awoke in the morning, I felt wretched. The room was too bright, too cold, and too unwelcoming. Without the warmth of Gemma beside me I felt disconcerted, lost, and confused. My hands groped blindly for her, but their search was fruitless. "Gemma?" I croaked, my throat dry with sleep and liquor.

"I'm here," she said softly. I opened my eyes to find her sitting at the window, gazing out at the overcast day. Though she didn't care enough to even look at me, I launched into an explanation of last night's events, apologizing profusely but stressing that I was not the one to initiate the kiss. "I know," she said when I finally shut my mouth. Her calmness made me nervous; Gemma could usually be counted on to be harsh and bitter when something didn't please her.

"You're not angry?"

"…No, I'm not angry." And that was all she said. I couldn't bear to spend any more time in the suffocating unease between us, so I fled from the house, alone.

I have been walking along this stretch of street overlooking the Seine for hours now and my head is still as clouded as the dense fog settling itself comfortably over the great river. Torturous thoughts weave their unwelcome way through my psyche, grasping my heart in a painful trap. _Is it over? Just one mistake, one breach of trust?_But what hurts me more than those thoughts is the cold truth. _I let Gemma down. I betrayed her trust._ Since we've been back together, she hasn't asked for much, only my trust and a place in my bed, two things I was more than happy to give. But now I've wrecked it; I've ruined the beautiful thing we had between us. Without that damned absinthe twisting my mind, I can't recall why I even wanted to kiss Claire. Sure, I felt a certain closeness to her because of our similar hardships in life, but I would never have thought of her romantically otherwise. I shall never drink absinthe again.

And what of the show? Our act? We have invested so much time and energy into perfecting it, but now I don't even care.

The damp fog permeates my clothing, chilling me right through to my heart. The setting takes me back, four years ago, to another foggy night near another river. Our first true kiss on the banks of the Thames. Gemma had been so honest, so vulnerable, so…open. Without her normal shell, I could see within her soul, how I saw myself as a part of her, and she as a part of me. That has not changed. All of a sudden, the fog seems to lift, not literally, but figuratively. What does it matter if Claire kissed me? I love Gemma, and I will never be uncertain of that.

My legs are sturdy and sure as they carry me back to Gemma. She is startled when I burst into the room, and I'm a bit surprised that she is still sitting at the window, though now a book rests in her hand. Before she can speak, I sweep her into my arms, holding her tight and kissing her deeply. It is a relief to feel her lips on mine, familiar and perfect, and it takes a few long moments before I can release her.

Gemma's eyes widen in bewilderment. "Kartik, what –?"

I place my forehead against hers. "Gemma, let's go home," I say with a smile.

"Home?"

"Mmm," I murmur my affirmation against the warm slope of her neck. Her fingers wind around locks of my hair and she softens against my touch. And with that subtle change in her body, I know she has forgiven me.

We leave early the next morning. Felicity and Claire have come to see us off; they stand huddled together in the morning chill, looking happier than they've seemed for the last few days. It seems that more than one couple have been reconciled since yesterday. As I load our suitcases into the carriage, Claire joins me. I cast a glance at Gemma, but she is busy with saying goodbye to Felicity.

"I am sorry for the other night," Claire says quietly.

I briefly consider snubbing her, evidence that I've been too long in the company of spiteful girls. "It is forgotten," I reply. She gives me a small smile, and we are joined by the others.

Felicity slinks her slender arm around Claire's waist. "We've been meaning to ask you…have you decided upon a stage name? We'd like to keep up with your career."

"You know, I haven't even thought of a name," I say. "Any ideas?"

Claire beams, as this sort of thing seems to be her specialty. "It must be something foreign and exotic, catchy yet blatantly ethnic," she breathes dreamily.

Gemma and I exchange a thoughtful look, an idea forming in our heads.

"Foreign?" Gemma muses, tilting her face towards mine.

"Exotic…" I take her hands in my own.

"And ethnic. Hmm. What about…" She squeezes my hands as an idea lights up her face. "The Great Rakshana!"

"Perfect!" Claire and Felicity chime in unison.

"The Great Rakshana," I say slowly, testing the feel of the words. It _is _perfect, delightfully ironic and mysterious all the same. "I love it."

And so that is the new identity I adapt to over the next few weeks as Gemma and I practice at all hours of the day, perfecting our act until even Dr. Van Ripple cannot contain his excitement to see us perform. When we are not slaving away at Van Ripple's warehouse, we are furnishing our first home together, a few rented rooms in the heart of London's West End. My life is coming together, but my happiness is still somewhat shallow. The mysterious volunteer murderer is still on the loose, reminding me of the real reason I have strived for all of this. I cannot rest until he is caught, and I shall be the one to catch him.

**Mwahahaha. Didn't see that coming, did you? No, Claire doesn't like Kartik that way, and he doesn't like her that way either. So don't worry! It could've been much worse...an orgy, perhaps!**

**So in addition to asking for reviews for MY story, I suggest you all read and review Shes.A.Dreamer's story. Why? Because she is one of the campers that I teach at summer camp! And she's a lovely blossoming writer with a lot of talent! (And she rides Dix too! The horse, perverts...)**

**Has a new pet rat named Ruby,  
LunaEquus**

**PLEASE REVIEW!!! Oh yeah, if you haven't noticed, I have this story broken up into 3 parts, like the 3 parts of an illusion. The Setup (which this is the last chapter of), The Performance (next chapter), and The Prestige (far away in the distance). I might also have an "Intermission", but I can't tell you what excitement that will bring yet. So, on that note, REVIEW!**


	10. The Performance 1

**Tsk tsk. Not that many reviews for last chapter...shame on you! Haha, just kidding (sort of)! Thanks for the reviews I DID get, and thanks to ThreeOranges for beta-ing and being a wonderful cheerleader of sorts! Enjoy!**

_The Lyceum Theater is dark as I walk onstage, my footsteps echoing throughout the empty rows of velvet-upholstered seats. Magic tingles in my veins such that I can picture its current, speeding along with my blood as my heart pumps irregularly from some unknown source of anxiety. Gemma levitates before me, offering a reassuring wink in my direction as she falls limp in the air, all part of the act. I don't understand why I am here, or why the theater is empty, but my body seems to know what it's doing. I will Gemma to descend, but the magic won't work correctly. She soars higher, out of my reach. _

_I grasp blindly in the thick darkness for her, but my hands instead brush against the rough tweed of a man's jacket. A fierce-looking face looms before me, white skin with black eyes. "You!" I cry, reaching for the dagger always hidden in my boot. I am wearing carefully shined shoes instead; the dagger isn't there. The killer grins viciously, a faint blue light seeming to glow from within his pallor. He snaps his fingers._

_And Gemma falls._

I wake with a start, realizing all at once that I am not on the stage of the Lyceum, and Gemma has not just fallen to her death. She stirs softly beside me. I take that as an invitation to wake her.

"_Marjaan,_" I whisper, rubbing her back, right between her shoulder blades. "Wake up." Her face screws in a grimace, and she turns the other way. I reach above us and turn on the light. Gemma groans and tries to pull the covers over her head, but I hold them so that she cannot.

"Alright, I am awake - just turn off the light!" she warbles in a weak voice, covering her face with her hands. "What is the matter?" she asks when the room is dark again. After the struggle to get her attention, I nearly forget why I bothered to in the first place, but the way she lies on her back, eyes closed, makes me remember.

"I had another nightmare," I confess to her peaceful-looking form. "You and I were onstage, performing in an empty theater. You were levitating, but I lost control of the magic. Then the killer appeared and you fell to your death."

Gemma is silent for some time, and I fear she has fallen back asleep. I await her response sheepishly, feeling very much the scared child waking his mother every time he has a bad dream. "Perhaps you are just anxious for our first act tomorrow," she says, opening her eyes. "I remember Ann telling me of a dream where she was performing on stage, only to realize she was naked. It is just nerves, Kartik."

"I don't think so, Gemma." I hold her gaze carefully in the dark, but she looks away with guilt. She clearly remembers what happened the last time she ignored my dreams.

"Then what do you think it means?" she asks quietly. "That you will be the death of me? Again? That I shall be the assumed victim up until the last minute, when you will take my place?" Her voice sounds vaguely thick with tears.

"I don't know."

"There are no soul-eating trees this time, Kartik. Humans are no threat if we have the magic."

"That is true…" I think of the faint blue light and its ties to the realms. What if the killer is not human? "There is no way for the creatures of the Realms to cross into this world, is there?"

"Not yet, no."

"Not yet?"

"Eventually, Philon and the others would like to visit this world."

"I see. And is the magic secure?"

Gemma shifts so that she is facing me. "Why the sudden preoccupation with the Realms?" she demands.

Her tone surprises me. "I have a feeling that something isn't right. The killer doesn't seem…human."

She scoffs. "You've put this murderer upon a pedestal, Kartik."

"I have not," I say defensively, though part of me agrees with her.

"You're obsessed with him!"

"I am not!" I lower my voice, for it has risen to a disruptive level. "Will you make sure all is well in the Realms?"

"Everything was fine the last time I was there."

An unexpected bubble of jealousy rises in my chest. _Why did she not tell me? Or bring me with her?_ "And when was that?" I ask, unable to mask the accusation in my voice.

"At Fee's party, when _you _were kissing Claire."

"I was not --!"

"Kartik, please!" Gemma sighs in exasperation. "I shall visit the Realms and speak to Gorgon. She will know if anything is amiss."

I swallow that annoying bubble of jealousy, along with my pride. "And when will I get to see the realms again? I should very much like to visit the Caves," I murmur huskily.

Gemma does not blush and smile like I expected. Instead, she turns her eyes heavenward. "We no longer need to hide ourselves away in the Cave of Sighs, Kartik."

"Yes, but…for old time's sake," I press, masking the hurt that clenches my heart in a painful grip.

She blinks a few times at the ceiling, then rolls over and climbs on top of me. "Why go all the way to some dusty cave…" She pulls at the ribbons on her nightgown and slips it off over her head. "when we can make love right here, in our own bed?"

I rest my hands on her full hips tracing the lines of her hip bones with my thumbs. "You don't want me to go to the realms," I state flatly.

Gemma smoothes her hands over the front of herself, cupping her breasts tenderly, and I'm momentarily aware of only her beauty, and her growing comfort with her own sexuality. "That's not true," she pouts, tugging my shirt over my head. I want so badly to believe her, to trust that she is not keeping me from such a big part of her life. For the moment, I decide to, for I am tired of this fighting and aroused by her advances.

"Oh, _marjaan,_" I murmur, running my fingertips over her collarbones. I slip my hand behind her neck and she bends to kiss me.

* * *

"You look _fine_," Gemma says for what seems like the hundredth time, as I peer once more into the dressing room mirror.

"_Fine_ isn't good enough," I remark, smoothing the front of my jacket. Our costumes have not yet arrived from Paris, but it's just as well, for they are far too extravagant for such a small show.

"It is only a music hall performance!" she exclaims, folding her arms over her chest.

"Oh, so I suppose any venue less than the Egyptian Hall isn't worthy of your trouble?" I ask, teasing her. Her face reddens considerably. "I don't remember you ever being so comfortable with the spotlight on you, Gemma," I say, touching on her delicate self esteem.

Her eyes widen in horror, as if she's just realized that everyone will be watching her, watching _us_, expecting perfection.

"I can't do it," she says with the air of a revelation. "Who am I trying to fool? I've enough trouble controlling the magic as it is without people _watching _me!"

Dr. Van Ripple chooses this precise moment to burst into the dressing room, waving his hands with excitement. "The audience – such energy! Can you feel it? Doesn't it just –." His face falls when he catches sight of us. "What is it? The two of you look ill. You didn't eat those oysters at dinner, did you? They smelled a bit off to me."

"No," I say. "Just a bit nervous, that's all."

"Nervous? My dears, there is no need to be nervous! You are my prodigies of prestidigitation, my magical marvels! I am willing to bet that in just a few short weeks, the highest venues will be after you. Your shows will be sold out! Hundreds of admirers will flock just to see you."

A small noise comparable to a cry escapes Gemma's lips. She looks very much like she would like to run away and hide. Suddenly I must be the strong one. I loop my arm around her waist. "Come on, Gemma, we will be fine."

She glares at me. "_Fine isn't good enough,_" she mimics.

"Alright then. We will be perfect."

"That's the spirit!" Van Ripple exclaims, checking his pocket watch. "It is time, my little ones." He herds us out of the comfort of our dressing room. As I walk, my own false hope repeats in my head with the steady drone of a mantra. _We will be perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect…_And then we are on stage, the bright spotlights upon us. Gemma looks to me, her eyes as wide as saucers as the audience waits expectantly, impatiently.

And I freeze.

* * *

"We were bloody _terrible_!" Gemma cries into her pillow later on. I sit beside her sprawled form, offering a sympathetic backrub but nothing else. She does speak the truth; we were terrible, but it hasn't wounded me as I thought it would. Instead of feeling upset or even ashamed, I am thoughtful.

Our performance was doomed from the start. I forgot what I was supposed to say (those spotlights are quite distracting), and our nerves made controlling the magic near impossible. Then about halfway through, I started laughing because of how terrible we were, and after that, I realized it couldn't possibly get any worse, and my nerves calmed. The rest of our act went surprisingly well, something that Gemma can't seem to care about since most of the performance was well, bloody terrible.

Gemma's shoulders shake with the effort of crying. I've never known her to be so sensitive, or at least…she doesn't usually cry as a result. Throwing things, however…

"Never again," she moans. "I'll never go near a stage again."

"It wasn't that bad, Gemma." With great effort, she pushes herself into a sitting position and stares at me, her face a masterpiece of running cosmetics. I wipe a streak of black from under her eye and examine it closely. "What _is _this?"

"Rimmel," she says flatly. "It makes my eyelashes darker."

I study her eyes, which are thickly ringed with black. "It certainly does its job then," I tease, which turns out to be a bad decision. Gemma's eyes well up with fresh tears, and she slumps into me, burying her face into my white shirt, thoroughly ruining it. I groan, but stroke her hair anyway.

"I hate my life," she grumbles.

"You do not. So we had one bad performance. It was alright in the end. Next time we won't be so nervous and we will do much better."

"You're lying," she says petulantly.

"I'm not," I say, wiping her face with my already-ruined shirt. "Trust me, _meri jaan._" She smiles weakly and kisses me sweetly on the lips. My heart wells with love for her. I twirl a lock of her coppery hair around my finger, appreciating the way it shines golden in the light and feels like silk to the touch. "You're so beautiful, Gemma," I whisper.

"I'm a dreadful assistant."

I chuckle softly and tug her curl playfully. "After facing death and very scary monsters, do you mean to say that performing onstage has you so terrified?"

"Yes."

"Well then, we're going to have to change that."

Just an hour later finds us in the dark alley behind the Lyceum Theatre. I work at picking the lock of an exit door, while Gemma huddles near, shivering in the early autumn air. "Please tell me why we are breaking in to the Lyceum?" she hisses through the black scarf carefully draped around her head, hiding her bright hair from view.

The door finally opens for me and I usher her inside. "I want you to be more comfortable on stage." _And me too,_ I mentally add. "Follow me." I lead her through the empty back rooms and halls to the main stage. Everything is, as predicted, pitch black. "Perfect," I say, pulling her close to me.

"Kartik, I don't like this," she whimpers. "I can't see anything."

I bend so that my lips brush her ear when I speak. "And nothing can see _us_."

She pauses. "Oh…" The silence of the vast, empty theater is electric, or perhaps the current I feel is something else, an excited understanding of the forbidden possibilities the night holds for us. Of course, I intended for this, but it doesn't make it any less delicious. "Kartik?"

"Yes, Gemma?"

"Take me." Her voice is more of an urgent plea then anything else, and I'm only to happy to grant her wish. We strip off our clothes in haste, tossing them about the stage.

"Do you see it now?" I ask breathlessly as I press her against the floor. "Performing onstage is a beautiful thing."

Gemma giggles and wraps her legs around me. "Can you imagine if we actually did this in front of an audience?" The floorboards creak gently beneath us. "I wonder how they'd react!"

"Depending on the venue, some might call for an encore, while others…" I pause for a moment to kiss her deeply. "While others – their heads might explode from the scandal." We hold each other even closer, laughing quietly at our new little joke. I go to kiss her again, but she holds me back, craning her neck as if trying to see over my shoulder.

"Did you hear that?" she whispers in panic.

"Hear what?"

"_Shh_!"

And then I hear it…two sets of footsteps, followed closely by voices. Stagehands, from the sound of it. Gemma squirms underneath me, but I stop her. "The magic," I whisper as quietly as I can. A familiar tingling sensation overtakes me, and I presume that we are invisible.

"Oi, it sure is dark in here, mate," one of them says. "D'you have your lamp?" A soft light appears near the back of the stage. I manage to see enough to confirm that Gemma concealed us.

"Hey Tim! Do you know this place is haunted?" the other exclaims gleefully.

"Haunted? What makes you say that?"

"The old janitor told me this morning. He said he saw a bluish light over there on the stage…it was a lady! Can you believe it?"

"'Course not. That man is as mad as a hatter!"

"Well, what's that over there then?" The footsteps grow louder as the stagehands come closer. "They're _clothes_. A man _and_a lady's! Say, you don't think…"

Gemma flickers into view beneath me, like a candle's flame in the breeze. I clap my hand over her mouth instinctively and place my own mouth very close to her ear. "Be calm," I whisper. "They can't see us." I feel her nod against me, and I can't resist from kissing her a few times, trailing my mouth down her neck. Without willing them to, my hips rock against hers, drawing forth a gasp from her lips.

"Did you hear that?" The stagehands are attentive. "Sounded like…"

"A ghost."

"Kartik, stop," Gemma whispers.

"I have an idea," I respond.

"What?"

"Moan!"

"What?"

I drive myself into her so that she cannot keep her voice contained. The stagehands jump. "It _is _a ghost!"

"A _lady _ghost," one says, sounding quite intrigued.

"Still a ghost! Let's get out of here, you fool!" They run off, their lamp throwing light in every direction, until their footsteps fade to silence.

Gemma sighs and drops our concealment. For a moment, I fear she will be angry at me, but then she laughs and places kisses all over my face. "You're terrible," she says.

"I am," I agree, gripping her thigh. "I'm bloody terrible." When I lower my head to run my tongue over her lips, something at the side of the stage catches my eye.

"What is it?" Gemma asks, when I freeze, squinting my eyes to discern anything in the thick darkness. There is nothing there.

"Nothing," I say, kissing her, though I am not convinced. Even as I close my eyes and commit myself to Gemma, part of my attention remains on that part of the stage, where I could have sworn I saw the faintest glimmer of blue.

**Ooh, they're so naughty! Breaking and entering to have sex on stage. And is it just me, or do I detect that Kartik has a little voyeuristic fetish? I mean, he still got off around those stagehands! Hehehe.**

**Just a few notes - Rimmel is mascara. Marjaan means "pearl" which is Gemma's birthstone (and mine!), and it sounds very similar to meri jaan, which means "my dear." **

**Now, if you all don't review, I'm going to be very sad! You have no idea how your reviews (or lack thereof) affect my mood, so for my sanity, please review? PLEASE?**

**Oh, and to answer a question - in my photo-edits, I don't really have red hair or green eyes. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, but there is no way in heck that I look like Fee! (I picture her as Romola Garai really - a different kind of beauty) I'm a Gemma dammit! Not a Fee! (whinewhinewhine) xD**

**PLEASE REVIEW or else Kartik will never take his pants off again. EVER. **


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